Peace by Piece
by Inks Inc
Summary: "I promise to love you faithfully, forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in sickness and in health, regardless of where life takes us. I will share your joys and your sorrow and comfort you in times of need. I promise to keep you safe at my side." Five months after swearing her most sacred of vows, tragedy forces Anastasia to live by them. Word for word.
1. Pain plus Pain

Grief.

The price we must pay for the privilege of love.

His chest is rising and falling in time with the melodious harmony of the machines responsible for sustaining his life. His wide eyes are closed. He looks almost peaceful, with his copper hair tumbling over his forehead and the worry lines that often crinkle his temples all but gone. His hand is warm under my hand. His skin is soft under my skin **.** He feels whole, real, present.

But he isn't.

He isn't whole, or real, or present.

He is a whisper of himself. The tall, commanding and passionate veil that he wears is lost. It may never be found again. Garish wires protrude from him at medieval angles. A formidable neck brace imprisons him, and a spinal board restrains him. Thick, yellowish casts encase both of his crumpled legs. They are matched in severity only by the unforgiving mesh that snakes around his crushed arms.

I should have known that something like this would happen.

My story was never meant to have a happy ending

Because I've veered far too far off-plot.

Someone like me is destined to settle with a dull, but well-intentioned man who would do me no harm, but cause me no passion. Someone like me is meant to play within my boundaries, and manage my expectations accordingly. But I didn't do that. I defied destiny and now she's having the last laugh. The cruelest, most blood-curdling laugh.

She's taking him away from me.

Out in the hallway, I can hear Grace arguing with the doctors. Her voice is thick with tears, but her words are laced with rage. In the adjoining and empty room, I hear Carrick war with the lawyers. Elliot and Mia aren't here yet. They're both abroad, but they've been notified of their brother's condition and are en route.

The hospital staff don't say it, but it's written all over their faces.

They don't think they'll get here in time to say goodbye.

The reality of the situation hasn't hit me yet. I am still breathing, so it can't have hit me yet. We are alone. Me and my broken, battered and bloodied husband. I did this. I am responsible for his demise, destiny aside. I was driving the car. I wheedled and pestered, pouted and groaned until he acceded. He would deny me nothing and I knew it. I knew it and I used it.

All to drive his Audi R8.

I still don't know how it happened. The doctors say that I may have some short-term memory loss, but save for the superficial abrasions to my head, I am fine. But I can't remember. One minute he was laughing, he was carefree, he was playful Christian. His hand rested upon mine on the gear shaft, the windows were down, and the wind was in our hair.

We were love's young dream.

But then there was the screeching, grinding sound of metal on metal. Light turned to dark. His hand was no longer on mine. I couldn't see, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The car was upside down, her wheels spinning frantically. But how did we get there? What did I do? I was looking at him. I can never tire of looking at him. Especially when his head is thrown back and he's shaking with laughter, his face alight and radiant.

It's so _rare._

And now, I will never see it again. They're talking about turning the machines that are keeping his heart beating, off. The hospital staff say that he's brain dead. That there is no neurological activity. That even if there were, they believe he is severely paralyzed. Quadriplegia, they called it. Grace had paled so hard she could have been the life support patient when the doctors came and told us the news and gave their recommendations.

That had been two days ago.

She had demanded to see his charts, insisted she call in her own colleagues for a second, third and fourth opinion. Enlisted a broken-hearted Carrick to look after the legalities of keeping their son alive AMA. I can still hear the shrieks that had burst from her at the nurse who had nervously inched into his room clutching organ donation forms.

I think I will hear those shrieks until my own dying day.

Which could be very, very soon.

For the moment they turn off those machines, or the second destiny intercedes and snatches him away in the dead of night, my life is at an end. I cannot keep my own heart pumping when his doesn't beat alongside me. I will not keep my eyes open, when his close forever. I am Mrs Grey. I have been Mrs Grey for only five months and I already know no other life.

I cannot be Anastasia Grey, the widow.

I can only be Anastasia Grey, the wife.

I stare at his peaceful face and wish I could give my life for his. My heart for his, my liver for his, my arms and legs, for his. My everything for his everything. But I can't. I've asked and asked, and I can't. I call his name softly, and he doesn't move. He never does but I call it anyway. I need the sound of it on my lips. I need to speak it, to know that he isn't yet a ghost with such taboo, his name banished.

Grace's and Carrick's voices rise in a crescendo.

Each battling in their own arena for their younger son.

And all I do is sit. And sit and sit. I hold his hand, I push the hair from his eyes. I smooth his blankets, I dampen his brow with a cold wash cloth. That is my fight. That is my arena. They tell me to go home and get some sleep, but I scream when touched. I will not be removed. They will have to prise my lifeless hands from his coffin as they lower it into the ground for eternity.

My own mother arrived earlier today and pleaded with me.

Ray arrived shortly thereafter.

But I do not heed them. I love them, of course I love them. But the love I have for my Fifty is a different beast. It's an all-consuming and all-knowing adoration. I stink. I haven't left to bathe. My hair sticks to my head in a dripping pool of grease and my skin chafes against the grime of the accident that still coats me.

It happens so suddenly.

The machines that were beeping so lazily, now shriek in alarm. Their neon lights flash in warning and alarm bells above the state-of-the-art bed whir and wail. I spring up in alarm as an inhuman roar rips from my throat.

Grace gets there first.

With terror emblazoned in her eyes but professionalism dripping from her fingers, she lowers his bed and whips the pillows from under his head. Carrick barrels into the room, with my mom and Ray hot on his heels. My world is frozen. I'm not breathing and I'm not blinking but I live more ferociously and hear more than ever before. An army of medics burst through the door. Phrases like _code blue_ and _crash cart_ pierce the air as they converge upon my fifty's listless, lifeless form.

I'm underwater.

The pressure is unbearable, and I can't move or breathe. Everything is a watery haze of confusion. I sway on my feet. Someone steadies me. I don't know who. I cannot get close to him; my limbs are disembodied. Grace fights off the doctor who dares to remove her, and her hands compress upon his chest over and over again.

The machines yowl and yelp as anarchy ensues.

And it is now and only now, that reality really hits.

My husband is going to die.


	2. My Moment

There are moments in life that tell you everything you need to know about yourself.

This is my moment.

I am no longer a wallflower.

Five hours and three minutes have passed since the army of medics, led by Grace, snatched my broken Fifty back from the brink of certain death. But only just. Their pursed lips and furrowed brows tell the tale of their silent disapproval. They hate their Hippocratic oath right now, they see no point in sustaining his life. He is nothing to them but a garbage bag of salvageable organs. They eye him, as he lays guarded under my watch, and they're vultures circling their prey.

But they will not have him.

I will not let them have him.

He is mine.

There must be something we can do; of this, I am now convinced. They say that there isn't, that he is beyond all medical intervention. That to keep him alive, tethered to machines, is not to keep him alive at all. His continuing existence is superficial, it isn't real. They say he cannot hear me, cannot feel me, cannot sense me. He suffered a severe cardiac arrest, his heart has been pushed to the breaking point. It will happen again, they say. And when it does, they think I should sign a form that says I do not want him to be brought back. A DNR, they called it.

Do not resuscitate.

They say he's gone. That the Christian Grey who stole my heart has floated through the roof, clutching it in his transparently ethereal hands. That what is left behind is merely a carcass. An empty vessel that no longer contains his warm wit, his secure insecurity and his amazing capacity for love. A tepid corpse that doesn't smile that crooked little smile, doesn't blink with that burning gaze and doesn't wrap himself around me like a vine come nightfall.

But that cannot be.

I will not _let_ that be.

For this is my moment.

For the first time, I am unashamedly gripped by our wealth. We are, despite my earlier reservations on the matter, billionaires. And rightly or wrongly, billionaires receive medicine on the cutting edge of brilliance years before it trickles down the money train to the masses. That is wrong and that is distasteful, but I will use every elitist dollar to save him. I will drain every cent we possess, I will liquidate that which can and cannot be liquidated and I will sell my soul to the devil if that's what it takes.

For this is my moment.

He has always been the one to look after me, to protect me, to cherish me. Now it's my turn. I've made some calls and Grace has made some calls. The doctors plead with the Grey matriarch to see reason, to use her medical expertise, no matter how painful. But she brushes them off. With a cold fury I would never have believed her capable of. But there is nothing but passion as she holds my hand from her side of the bed, our fingers entwined over his softly rising chest. I am grateful to her in this moment.

We're waiting.

It's a game of patience, now.

Grace's contact in New York polarizes the medical community. Some consider him a maverick, deserving of a stripped license. Others consider him a medical virtuoso with a touch of savant syndrome about him. I'm choosing to believe the latter. I am clinging to the latter. The latter is the only thing filling my lungs with air right now. Dr Peter Moore is due to call back after he has reviewed Christian's charts and formed a prognosis of his own.

Grace is rarely blunt, but when she suggested Dr Moore, she was the bluntest.

 _He will either save him or kill him, Ana. There is no middle ground here…._

That is the risk I am taking.

For this is my moment.

I am his wife. I hold power of attorney. The final decision rests with me, no matter what route is chosen. There's a rustle at the door and as I look up, the chief attending pops his head in the room and stares at me with disapproval that he tries to pass off as sympathy. He is tall, dark and not handsome. He's like the anti-Christian.

I've named him Dr Death in my mind.

I think Christian would like that.

He'd smile that bemused smile that always make me hear colors and see smells.

The smile that consumes me.

"Mrs Grey, your mother-in-law informs me that you have reached out to a Dr Peter Moore in New York in regards to your husband's case. I don't wish to be indelicate, but with all due respect, it is a fruitless endeavor. There is next to no neurological activity on Mr Grey's EEG. We cannot legally, after considerable deliberations, declare him brain-dead. But for all intents and purposes, he is. Even if we managed to stabilize his heart and make any kind of headway with his other devastating injuries, he would be in a persistent vegetative state at the very best."

He smiles with a sadness so false I want to smash his teeth into oblivion.

Grace eyes him with venom and emits a feral growl.

Her body shakes with it.

I squeeze her hand, reassurance burning in my palms, restraining her.

For this is my moment.

"We are going to proceed with the option that gives my husband the very best chance at the greatest degree of recovery," I hiss quietly, "Clearly, such an option isn't going to be found in this second-rate institution. We will travel to New York if Dr Moore thinks he can help him. If you try to interfere with that travel, if you try to circumvent my decision or if you eye him like an organ sandwich _one_ more time, you will hear from our lawyers. Now leave."

He raises a condescending brow and his lips purse into nothingness.

"As you wish," he murmurs silkily, and slithers out.

The room lapses into the bone-crushing silence of despair drowning in hope. I simply stare at him as I slowly die inside myself. He looks like he could be sleeping, he is peaceful. He doesn't cry out as he does so often in his slumber. He is completely relaxed, completely unworried and completely broken. I will not cry. This, I have promised myself. I must be strong for him. I must have the kind of strength for him that he would have for me. He would fight every doctor who dared to end my life, even if it was coming to a crashing end regardless. He would pull in every resource and favor known to man, to save me. I must do the same for him, now.

For this is my moment.

Carrick has taken Elliot and Mia downstairs for coffee and I'm glad. Not because I don't want to see them, but because seeing them breaks what little is left of my heart. Mia is the first person to draw words from my broken Fifty. There is a special bond between them. Elliot, strong, cocky Elliot, he is decimated. He is a shadow of himself.

The Grey brothers are on the verge of extinction.

Suddenly, Grace's cell shrieks in her hand and my world stops. She was very clear. This Dr Moore is our only shot. He's the only one daring enough to attempt to fix the unfixable. If he says no, if he says there is no hope, that is it. My world as I know it is over and the world as it knows me shall be two people short. My mind is resolute in absolute. I will not live on this Earth without him. I cannot live on this Earth without him.

If Dr Moore cannot help him, I cannot help myself.

A split second blanketed in an eternity passes as we stare at the phone.

With trembling fingers, Grace takes the call.

My blood ices in my veins. My heart balloons in my chest and the air in my lungs thins into nothingness. It's painful to breathe, so I don't. I hold my breath and wait in sweaty terror for my world to implode into shards of grey. The room is closing in and my windpipe is buckling, but I battle to stay in the present and fight to hope.

For this is my moment.

Grace does not speak, she merely listens.

Her face is impassive, her eyes have long since disconnected from her soul.

I know nothing.

His life is in this doctor's hands and I know nothing. Hyperventilation threatens to overtake me, but I flick it off. I cannot be anything but consciously present right now.

For this is my moment.

She doesn't hang up the phone as she slowly peels it down from her ear and her eyes swivel to mine. She looks at me like she's never looked at me before and in that split second, I can see Christian in her. Impossible, I know, but I can. There's a level of emotion radiating off her that is so powerful it sears me. My heart is in my mouth as hers slicks open to utter the words that will either prolong my life, or end it here and now.

"We're going to New York, Ana. We leave tonight."

A single, solitary tear slides down her face and trickles down her chin.

"There may be a glimmer of hope."


	3. The Theory of Relativity

One hundred years ago, Albert Einstein produced his theory of relativity.

I think he may have had more scientific and geographic considerations in mind when he discovered the time paradox, but there are emotional considerations that rival the Earth's gravitational pull when your reason for living is dying in front of you. I am in a time-warp. We are hundreds of feet above sea level, in a commandeered medi-jet, with three of Seattle's most prominent physicians battling to keep my husband from the brink of an almost certain death. Time swings like a pendulum from galloping along with the gait of a cheetah to crawling along with the slither of a snail. My heart pulsates between bradycardia and tachycardia. My fingers are numb to the puddle of palm sweat they reside in.

Grace fluctuates between terror paralysis and medical inspiration.

Carrick, Elliot and Mia will meet us there. Only two family members are allowed to accompany a patient on a medi-jet. No one was stupid enough to try and remove me from his side and the love between a mother and her son, especially the love between Grace and Christian, is not to be messed with. The body of the jet is a marvel. It is a fully equipped medical and surgical suite. For the second time in my life, I bleed green and regret not an elitist moment. If Christian were a normal guy with a normal job, he would be dead right now.

His drive and passion are the only reasons his heart continues to beat.

Albeit artificially.

Doctors whose names I don't remember sit on either side of my broken Fifty. They watch the gently beeping machines like hawks and notate his progress with a miser's accountancy. I hold his hand. I hold it tighter than I've ever held it before. Like a balloon, I am afraid that if I let go, he will float away. He would love this plane, if he could see it. Technology always excited him. Combine cutting edge medical treatment with top of the line aviation, and he would have been a kid in a candy store.

But he can't see it.

He has no idea where he is, who he is, or what he is.

He is not here.

Not in mind, anyway.

He is somewhere far away. I know it in my soul. I don't know how I know it, I just know it. He is lost in the maze of his own mind and it terrifies me. I've seen the pain that comes for him in the night. Now, he's in the grips of a possibly eternal night and the pain will have pinned him down, forcing him to relive the trauma of his past.

My securely-insecure, sweetly-loving Fifty is once again the gray-eyed boy.

The toddler that lay beside the cooling corpse of the mother he couldn't bring himself to hate. The little boy that grew into the man that will never see himself through the world's eyes. The abused infant that rocked himself to sleep in the arms of hunger and thirst.

He is there, now.

I know it as deeply as I know myself.

And I cannot wake him up from the nightmare this time.

My eyes remain dry. My resolution remains resolute. I am his voice, his eyes, his armor. I am his protection and his protection must not waver. He will not go where I do not go. He will not be removed from my sight or my touch until God or science removes him with finality. He has more wires in him now than he did back at the hospital. Tubes protrude from him at every angle imaginable. Nothing inside him is doing its job. No organs are rising to the challenge. Every humming machine and invasive needle and wire are taking their place. They are the only thing tethering him to this world.

That, and his love for me.

I am a born and hopeless romantic. There is a reason I studied literature. There is a reason why my favorite books are the classics shunned by modernity. It is the fantasy of purity that compels me. I never, ever thought I would be on the receiving end of the literary love I longed for. But that was before Christian. That was before fire and ice could come together and create harmony. It's ridiculous, childish and medically impossible; but I believe he is hanging on in there for a reason.

For me.

He's basically comatose with just enough neurological activity to prevent a legal declaration of brain death. He's battered, bloodied and broken. He is decimated. And yet, I believe. I truly believe he would never leave me here, without him. I honestly trust that he would never leave me behind, with no will or reason to live. Medically speaking, he should be dead. Even Grace admits it. The fact that he's still alive is a miracle. A medical marvel. He is defying the odds to be here.

He is tied to me.

And I to him.

The logical part of my brain rolls its eyes at my pre-widow romanticizing.

The illogical part of my brain smothers the logical in yearnful hope.

It's all I have.

We are thirty minutes away from landing. The doctors inject and notate with a passion. I glare at every pinprick, but I keep my mouth shut. It's all to keep him alive and I must remember that. Grace monitors everything they are doing with the fearsome gaze of the mother lioness upon them. She has the medical side of things under control, I need to concern myself only with the wife side of things.

 _The wife side of things…_

My no-tears resolution is under threat as our white wedding swims in front of my eyes. Unlike most other twenty-two year-olds, I didn't grow up picturing my big day in flounces of pristine white. I never gave a second thought to marriage because no one marries the mousy-haired girl that has bigger books than boobs. Least of all the inhumanly good looking billionaire with the Red Room of Pain closeted away in his penthouse apartment. So our wedding day was a _screw you_ to destiny. And it was the, cliché upon cliché, happiest day of my life. I will never, I am quite sure, experience that level of elation again.

The moment he slipped my wedding ring on my finger, I was complete.

I twist it around my finger now, five months later, and stare down at the commitment it represents. I pledged my love and loyalty to this man from that day to my dying day. I promised to stand by his side in times of sickness and strife. When I spoke those words, with the happiness of the heavens in my heart, I had no idea what was coming down the line for me.

For us.

I had no idea I had a ninety-nine percent probability of becoming a widow before my twenty-third birthday. I had no idea that I would be the cause of my own husband's death. I had no idea that instead of planning our future, together, I will instead plan his funeral, alone. I had no idea that my apparently triumphant conquest over fate was nothing but the cruelest of cruel jokes. And had I known, would I have married him anyway? I look down at his beleaguered body and my tears are blinked back.

 _Yes._

A thousand times, yes. A million times, yes.

An _eternal_ yes.

Because a split second with him is worth a thousand times more than immortality alone. Grace's soft voice startles me, and I look to her with reluctance, my eyes belong to him in totality until he is once again whole. She is pale and haggard, but there is a resilience about her that I know can only come from a mother's love.

"We're going to land in ten minutes. Expect some turbulence."

I nod.

She doesn't press me for any more than that.

His eyes are taped shut. I objected to this at first, strenuously. They assure me it is for his own protection, but all I can see is that he is now both mentally _and_ physically trapped in his own mental horror. Even if he could and wanted to open his eyes to the light, he is bound to the darkness. The plane begins to vibrate and buck against the wind as she begins her slow descent into New York. I have been on this plane for ten seconds. I have been on this plane for ten hours. Nothing is what it was, time least of all. In five or so minutes, the medical team attached to Dr Moore will wheel my husband to what could be his last destination. It takes everything I have not to vomit all over him and increase his chance of infection.

The decent begins in earnest and the doctors ooze competence as they protect Christian from the rocking of the cabin.

All too soon, the thud of wheels hitting tarmac vibrates up through the sterile floor and the medi-jet cruises down the runway of the exclusive Beauville Memorial Hospital, nestled in the elite outskirts of New York City. It serves the rich and famous and precious few others. In normal circumstances, I would march my peasant-born ass into a public hospital a thousand miles away from this place; but these are not normal circumstances.

The plane eventually stills and nearly immediately, the doors zoom open.

It's dark and it's cold, the smell of rain lingers in the air. Garishly fluorescent lights pierce the night. An army of doctors await us, clad in distinctly violet scrubs and shockingly white coats. I am seized with the insane desire to throw myself over his lifeless body and shield him from these maverick medics. Suddenly, I do not want him touched. I want us to remain within the confines of this plane, high in the sky. Christian loves flying. He's rarely as happy as when he's in full flight in _Charlie Tango_. The no-tears rule comes close to breach yet again as I think about my first helicopter ride. I was a naïve girl with small-town dreams back then, the wallflower that was Miss Anastasia Steele.

But I am Mrs Anastasia Grey now and I need to get it-the-hell-together.

I stand and nod at the doctors, both emplaned and on the ground, who stare at me apprehensively. I probably look demented and I definitely do not care. They should be afraid. They should be terrified. They should double, triple and quadruple check every single move they make with the beat of my heart. Because if they don't, I will remain on this Earth just long enough for them to wish to depart it. They heed my permission and remove the safety catches on the wheels of his bed. The female doctor, Amanda something or other, looks at me warily and I see the unspoken request in her eyes.

She wants me to let go of his hand.

No chance, Amanda something or other, _no chance._

Slowly and pointedly, I tighten my grip on his flaccid fingers and extend my free hand to Grace who takes it without hesitation. Her strength seeps to my fingers and mine to hers. Amanda something or other frowns in resignation but offers no protest. The ramp is lowered. The bed is moving. This is really happening and it's happening right now. We move as one. An awkward, slightly cumbersome one, but as one nonetheless.

The hospital is more like a five star retreat.

With numb and leaden legs, I stride alongside his bed with the hand of his mother still in my own. The warmth and cleanliness hit me the minute we walk in the door. Everyone wears violet here, apparently. And everyone here has at least twenty letters after their names, embroidered in jaunty green on their starkly white coats. There is a waft of elite success in the air. Awards adorn the walls. Accolades shimmer down from all angles. Machinery that I have never seen is in plentiful supply and not one member of staff bears the wearied slump that besieges public hospital employees.

A feeble flicker of hope licks my intestines.

This is no ordinary place.

This is a Tony Stark kind of place.

A small smile plays about my lips and they itch in confusion.

Christian secretly loves Marvel films. I caught him one day, in the TV room, staring in boyish amazement at the wonders of Ironman. After relentless teasing, he eventually admitted they were his guilty pleasure, with that chagrined grin that never fails to shake my spleen with love. He would like this place, if he could see it.

If he ever sees it…

The flicker of hope crackles, spits, and dies.

There is a bubble of medical mumbo jumbo going on around me. I don't try and keep up. Grace has it covered. All my attentions are on him. I look for any miraculous signs of awakening. There aren't any. He is still far, far away. Cornered in the crevices of his mind he tries so hard to run from. A wail threatens to tear from my throat and I swallow it down like a razor blade.

I am his eyes, his ears, his voice.

I cannot falter.

I will not fail him.

I will not allow the calamitous guilt I feel take me down.

Not yet.

We are directed to a cavernous room, plastered with fine art, at the very end of the first floor hallway. Save for the overtly top-of-the-line medical equipment that stands ready and waiting, we could be in a luxurious hotel suite. Suddenly, I feel the cold hand of dread reach into my chest and stop my heart as the bright peach walls provide a weird clarity.

Will my husband die here?

Will it be in this room that he draws his last breath?

Will his obituary list New York as his place of death?

As his bed is wheeled into position, the walls are closing in. The terror I was keeping at bay is coming to crash onshore. I buckle. My knees go out from under me and the sterile hospital floor rushes up to meet my face. I close my eyes and brace myself for the pain, my basic human instincts failing me. I cannot throw my hands out to save myself, for one of them is still nestled in my husband's.

The husband whom I have as good as murdered.

But Grace gets there before the floor can. Her hands dart out and grab me gently, pulling me upwards, dragging me above water. Limpness radiates through me as she pushes my hair from my face and stares into my eyes with the same ferocious determination I have seen on her son's face, time and time again.

"Ana. Stay with me. You have to stay with me."

Her eyes flicker to her now ensconced and continually comatose son.

"You have to stay with him. I don't care what they tell you. I know my boy and I know medicine. He can sense your presence. Don't leave him now, Ana. It's unbearably painful. It hurts so much you think you might die. I know that. I _know_ that, but you must stay strong for him. You are his greatest and brightest joy, Ana. It has to be _you."_

I stare at her and experience my first first-hand medical miracle.

 _Strength._

It left me only momentarily and it returns like a hurricane.

She's right.

As much as he is my reason and being, I am his wife, his life.

It has to be me.

It _will_ be me.

Before I can say anything, the team of young doctors snap to attention and stare at the open doorway in apprehension. Grace and I swivel in tandem. I do not need to ask who he is. The air of arrogance that surrounds him tells me everything I need to know. This is a man who dominates his field and knows it. This is a man who treasures his mind and intellect above all else. This is a man who sees things differently to those around him.

This is the man who is going to try and save my Fifty's life.

The strength within me doubles tenfold, imbuing my spine with titanium.

I have had my one wobble.

I will not have another.

Not until, one way or another, I have answers.

Dr Peter Moore saunters into the room with pep in his step. He is no more than forty years old and he retains a youthful aura. His hair is shockingly blond and flops artfully across his forehead. His eyes are a shrewd shade of blue and he stand at six foot one, with a broad, sculpted build. Without a word of introduction, he snaps his fingers at his underlings. A nervous guy, in his twenties at the most, springs forward like a hare and hands him the charts the doctors we flew with provided. I look at Grace questioningly, and she merely eyes Dr Moore with professional disapproval.

"Dr Moore, I am Dr Gr-"

He holds up a supercilious finger in interruption.

Grace purses her lips up tighter than a lemon left in the sun.

"Excuse me, Dr Moore. I think you need to know-"

He looks up and smiles a smile that shrieks of anarchy and genius.

"The only thing that anyone in this room needs to know, is that I am the man who is going to save this patient. We will reconvene here in the morning at nine am. At that time I will walk you ladies through my plan for your son and… I assume husband's, treatment. I do not take questions at this time, I am not a talk show host. Please be punctual tomorrow. If I am to bring this man back from a parsnip to a person, time is of the essence."

Before I can peel my lips apart from their shock, he is gone.

His minions dart after him like a Justin Bieber entourage.

Grace and I turn to gape at each other.

Before I can even fathom the madness that just poured from that _man's_ mouth, a shrilling in my pocket distracts me. Confused, I glance down at the vibrating pulse and realize it's my cell. I blink. Everyday things like cells and coffee orders go right out the window in moments like these and it takes me a minute to gather the sense to answer. I don't recognize the number, but it could be about Christian. I nod approvingly when Grace squeezes my shoulder and takes the left hand side of her son's bed, leaving the right hand-side for me.

I do not want to answer, but I have to.

It could be important.

"Hello."

The silence on the other end is brief.

"Is this Mrs Anastasia Grey?"

 _For all of five months, before I murdered Mr Grey? It sure is._

"Yes, who is this?"

I can hear the distinct rusting of paper.

"This is Detective Colton Brooks from the Seattle Police Department. I am the lead detective on your car crash case and I am calling with some questions. I did call your home and the hospital where Mr Grey was under treatment, but the doctor there said you had left for New York?"

I sigh.

Now is _not_ the time for insurance bullshit. It was a single car collision, no one else was hurt. I don't really need to hear about the damage I did to a public motorway.

"Detective, this isn't really a good time. The accident was…"

"Let me stop you there, Mrs Grey. That's why I am calling so late. We don't think it _was_ an accident."

My heart forgets to beat.

My lungs forget to expand and contract.

My world ceases to exist.

 _"What?"_ I manage to croak. "What are you saying?"

There is a longer pause this time and I can hear the reluctance in his smooth voice, but he gets right down to it.

"Mrs Grey, from CCTV footage and forensic examination of the scene, coupled with some eye-witness testimony, we no longer believe your crash was a single car incident. The tire tracks, nature of the damage sustained, and witness statements with corroborating camera footage suggests you were deliberately run off the road. By a large and black SUV, registered under false plates. From preliminary investigations, we determined that a woman was driving the other vehicle. We ran face recognition and came up with a name. I want to see if it means anything to you, if you might know a woman who would want to hurt you and your husband?"

The hand holding the cell to my ear freezes over into an ice club.

My brain burns to a rolling boil.

I cannot breathe. I am once again, underwater. Freezing cold water. My lungs scream in my chest and shock threatens to be the cause of my demise. My eyes bulge and strain the veins that encase them in their sockets. He told me she was better. He told me she was taking art classes and that she was thriving. He told me that she no longer obsessed over him, lusted after him and rehashed her life with him. He assured me she was no longer a threat. He promised me she was out of our lives. He swore to me that Leila Williams was just another sub, released from contract, never to be thought of again. As I twist to take in his lifeless form, I cannot process the tsunami within me. Grace looks at me in bewilderment and I stare back through unseeing eyes.

My voice is a whisper of a whisper.

"Leila Williams."

Einstein is back with his theory of relativity.

A silence that in reality, is a split second, spirals into an eternity.

Detective Colton Brooks's voice of reply will forever live on in my mind.

"Ma'am, the woman identified behind the wheel was a Miss Andrea Parker. She is your husband's former assistant. Do you know her?"


	4. Blind Faith

_Andrea?_

Andrea wasn't his former assistant, or anything of the kind. Andrea was... _is,_ for all intents and purposes, his work wife.If it wasn't for the fact that she was a platinum blonde and utterly impervious to the Christian Grey effect, I would have bristled with jealousy every time he spoke her name. As it is, I like Andrea. She is his right-hand woman and clearly, this detective is either on a fishing expedition that I am too tired to make sense of right nowor he is woefully incompetent.

I stare at my broken Fifty and feel anger bubble in my soul.

He does so much good in the world. He literally feeds and clothes the poorest of the poor, he employs the masses, puts food on the table for family after family. And, by some sick twist of fate, not only does he end up with a wife like me... the kind that puts him in a hospital bed instead of just bedding him, he draws the short straw of law enforcement, too. Grace strokes his lifeless hand gently and looks at me with bewilderment in her eyes. It takes everything I have to tear my eyes away from him, but for her sake, I must.

And whisper with a venom that I am becoming accustomed to.

"You appear sadly misinformed, Detective Brooks. Andrea Parker remains at GEH, as my husband's must trusted assistant. There is nothing _former_ about her employment situation. I don't know where your information is coming from, or what witness statements you think you have, but there is no way in _hell_ that Andrea ran us off the road. No one ran us off the road. The accident was just that, it was an accident, and if anyone is to blame... it's me.

But right now, at this very moment in time, my husband's life is hanging in the balance and I do not have the time to handhold you through what is clearly your first investigation. You have your information wrong, you should never give out information unless you're one hundred percent assured of its basis in fact. Do your research and find Andrea Parker at her desk, where she always is. Please do not contact me again with any more idiotic stories. Things are bad enough as it is, surely you understand that?"

There.

That'll tell him.

If Christian could hear or see me, he'd smile his amused, wry smile. He always thinks it's so _funny_ when I fly off the handle. It's so rare and unpracticed; he lights up like a Christmas tree when I shed myself of my ladylike demeanor and tell it like it is. But he can't see or hear me. Perhaps he never will again. Does Detective Brooks _care_ that he's monopolizingwhat could very well be the last moments I have with my husband with absolute bullshit? Can someone be _that_ incompetent and uncaring?

"Anastasia, I-"

"It's Mrs Grey."

"Mrs Grey," he corrects quietly, "I am very sorry to have to be so blunt, but time is of the most extreme essence. Doing this over the telephone isn't something I'd ever want to do, but these are intense circumstances as I am sure you can understand. Andrea Parker no longer works for your husband. She is banned from Grey House and any other organization or property your husband owns or operates. There was an incident seven or so months ago and your husband's private security detail responded. Jason Taylor is a fellow ex-serviceman and we know each other quite well. With your husband's permission, he contacted me about the incident to seek my professional advice on how best to proceed. Legally, they weren't sure of their options and they wanted to keep the incident under close wraps, and my silence was assured... until now."

The beeps of the machines behind me are eurythmic.

They beat without falter as my heart skips several paces.

"The details are at this time, quite scant, which is why I was hoping that perhaps you may know more. But apparently, Miss Parker developed some very intense... affections towards Mr Grey over the period of her employment. We believe that your husband remained completely unaware of thisadmiration until the event of seven months ago. Tentatively, we speculate that your impending nuptials may have been the trigger for Miss Parker's deterioration of sound mental well-being. She began stalking your husband. Outside the office, she would follow him to the business meetings she herself set up and observe him from a safe distance. She only chose those meetings that she knew he had notscheduled Taylor to attend, and thus was assured she would not be seen."

This isn't happening...

This cannot be happening...

First Mrs Robinson, then Leila, then Jack and now... this?

It cannot be real.

"We're not entirely sure how long she engaged in these practices, but from the preliminary search of her home and the photos and evidence collected there, we can safely assume she harbored these feelings for Mr Grey for a long time **.** When you began seeing your husband, her internet search history took a serious nosedive into the dark zone. I cannot tell you exactly what Miss Parker was looking for, but rest assured, her sentiments towards you were not pleasant. We therefore reason to believe that the night whenLeila Williams entered the apartment you shared with a Katherine Kavanagh, Miss Parker was the one to enable her access. We have unearthed a direct line of communication between Miss Williams and Miss Parker and the sole conversation matter was that of yourself and your husband."

The world trembles before me.

The floor glimmers ever closer to my face.

The balls of my feet wobble as they strain to support me.

"We believe that the event seven months ago was set in motion by your husband's uncovering Miss Parker's connection to Miss Williams, her participation in the events that took place in your home, and the discovery of file after file about him on her computer. Taylor is still not forthcoming about the specifics;his loyalty to Mr Grey now impedes this investigation, but from what he _has_ told us... Miss Parker was faced with an ultimatum. Your husband decided she was mentally unwell and,although he had to be physically restrained from harming Miss Parker when he found out her part in your apartment ordeal... he calmed down enough to compartmentalize."

None of this true.

None of this _can_ be true.

This is simply... impossible.

My blood sloshes like molten waves in my ears and my mouth dries to ash.

"He offered her a one-time deal. Either she resign effective immediately and leavethe city to enter a treatment facility of his choosing... or he would call the police and leave her to the criminal justice process. She became hysterical and made a romantic advance towards him **…** his rejection was quite visceral. She attempted to run. Taylor managed to restrain her and a doctor was called to the scene. She was sedated and after allowing the medication to take effectand when the doctor was assured she was calm enough, she agreed to go a medical facility and never contact your husband or you again."

I was never strong enough to be a Grey woman.

This was never supposed to be my path.

I am walking barefootover red-hot bricks, when I should be prancing through a meadow.

"I nowbelieve, that Mr Grey chose to keep this information to himself lest he cause you stress and worry. But I am sure you saw the tightening of security, and it wasn't just protection againstJack Hyde. Over time, I can only imagine speculationof Andrea Parker gradually leftyour husband's thought. Miss Parker was supposed to remain in the care of the psychiatric institution for as long as deemed medically necessary. But she absconded and made her way back to Seattle over a period of many days. I spoke to the doctors there and they... well, they believed her to be making next to no progress. Your husband never called to check on her, his orders to them were to keep her far away and never to mention his name to her. She became even more disturbed and the doctors say that before she escaped the secure institution, she could and would utteronly one word."

This is no longer my moment.

There is only so much one woman can take.

"Grey."

Of course it was.

"The medics at the institution were extremely concerned that Miss Parker is both highly intelligent and highly motivated. They say she is on a destructive spiral. From the very brief amount of therapy that she _did_ have, Miss Parker intimated that if she couldn't have Mr Grey, no one could. And if he didn't want her, then he would not be afforded the opportunity to covet another. We therefore believe that she will not stop. Apparently,this attempt on both your lives is only the beginning. While her rage is great with regards to Mr Grey, we believe it is even greater with respect to you, Mrs Grey. I believe Taylor is already on his way to you, with another man called... Sawyer, I think. But really, I would be much more comfortable if you would allow me to send two of my own men to protect you until I can get there. Given Mr Grey's status, resources are not an issue on this case and you are being offered around-the-clock protection until we can apprehend Miss Parker. Obviously, no one is airing the fact that Mr Grey has been relocated to New York, but Miss Parker knows the infrastructure of his business and personnel better than anyone. It's better to be safe than sorry."

She's not done?

She's coming for him, for me, for _us?_

Tears threaten. They swim into my ducts and wriggle in search of freedom. I almost let them, I almost break down and succumb to the primal need of release, but I do not. Because, no matter what he has done or not done, Christian Grey is my life and he is under threat from all angles. His own body threatens to extinguish his light and now yet _another_ Grey-obsessed bitch presents a danger to his survival. I will not allow that to happen. She fooled me, granted, that's true. But if what Detective Brooks says is true, and somehow, I think it is... then her inspiration was a valid one.

It's the Christian Grey effect, pure and simple.

Woman will literally kill for him.

That's old news.

I am battling my shock and I am winning. For once again, this is my moment. A year ago, I would have cried and I would have run far, far away. But I am not that girl anymore, I am now a woman, a wife. My life is no longer my own and I wouldn't want it any other way. He was misguided in doing what he did, absolutely, and when he wakes up he's gonna hear about it... but I know his intentions were pure.

Chauvinistic, controlling and caveman-like.

But pure nonetheless.

He was trying to protect me. He was trying to shield me. But he has never met the _new_ me. Because the new me is a newborn, fresh from the ashes of my previous life. His demise has, in some way, been my rebirth. I do not need his protection, I need to protect. I do not need his shielding armor, I am the armor. Times have changed, I've had to adapt.

I am Mrs Anastasia Grey.

"Listen closely, Detective Brooks, here's what is going to happen. Send your men. When Taylor gets here, I will have him coordinate security. Your people do not override his people. You're a government official and you have a duty-of-care, but he is _my_ husband and we are going to do this _my_ way. This isn't my first rodeo when it comes to the crazy fucking bitches that manage to worm their way into his life, so trust me when I tell you, I got this. I want someone with him around-the-clock. If that person needs to urinate or defecate, then I want a replacement until they return. There is to be someone with him at all times. Like you say, my husband is of a certain status and should any _further_ harm befall him... the words _police incompetence_ will follow you around until your dying day."

"Mrs Grey-"

"Taylor will have a better chance of locating Andrea than your department ever will. He has obviously informed you all about Leila and the rest of it. My husband trusts him with his life, so I trust him with both of ours. You will work with him, you will do whatever it takes, but by the end of this working week... I want that insane bitch behind bars. Not a cushy treatment facility, but _behind bars._ Mr Grey has been far too kind for far too long to the women who would see him harmed. That's over with, _now_. It's done. You do that, you do everything I've asked and I will see to it that you are appropriately rewarded... in whatever form you would most prefer. Do we have an understanding?"

Silence spirals through the line.

I wait.

I am once again, in control.

My heart is pounding, sickness rocks back and forth in my gut and my palms are sweatier than a locker room bench, but... I can _do_ this. I have to do this. I cannot lose it now, not when he needs me the most. This is just another battle in our uphill mountain of battles and I will climb it like I did the rest of them. Is it fair that our love has been threatened and tested at every turn? No. It sure as shit isn't. But has it made us stronger? Has adversity really morphed into tenacity?

It sure as shit has.

"We have an understanding, Mrs Grey. You will hear from me shortly. Until then, my men are being dispatched as we speak and between us, we will put an end to the injustice you have suffered. Stay alert, trust no one and speak to no one. Sometimes, the people you think you know the best are those you know the least about. Keep your circle small. She's out there and she's gunning for you both. Her inside experience at GEH makes her even more dangerous than her natural intellect and perseverance.Disturbed or not, she is not a risk to be taken lightly. I will be with you when I can. Obviously, this is irregular in the fiscal and logistical sense of things, but we can discuss those issues at a later date. Goodbye, Mrs Grey."

There is no way that Grace hasn't heard every word.

I turn to her slowly, bracing myself for the pain I am sure will be splashed across her face. But there is no pain. There is only grim and feral determination. Her hand cups around her son's even more forcefully and her eyes glint with resolve. This is a woman on my level, this is a Mrs Grey that I aspire to, this is the kind of mother I want to be to our children.

"We do not need to discuss the particulars right now, but we will keep both of you safe... no matter the cost," she vows quietly, "Do you understand, Ana? _No matter the cost..."_

I nod my head and float to his right-hand side to cup his other hand.

I share a kinship with this woman, in a way I never did before. Of course, I always liked Grace. I have a pleasant relationship with Carrick, but I've always felt a connection with the Grey matriarch. And it's because it was she who saved my reason for life. It was she who rescued him, nurtured him and absolved him. It was she that took the gray-eyed boy home and did her level best to give him the life someone like Christian deserved.

Her love for him as fierce as my own.

And for that, I will love her eternally.

We sit in silence and the conversation with Brooks rebounds and resounds in my skull. I digest it, pick through it bit by bit and try to come to terms with it. It is easier than I thought it would be. Love... it's a dangerous tool. It can conquer all. I truly believe that Brooks could have told me that my Fifty was a convicted murderer, a serial killer, and I would have followed him to Death Row. There is a rare love in this lifethat precious few experience and I am Lady Luck's latest recipient.

Together, we defeated Mrs Robinson.

Together, we defeated Leila Williams.

Together, we defeated Jack Hyde.

Together, regardless of soundness of mind and body, we _will_ defeat Andrea Parker. No one can stand in our way. We are Mr and Mrs Grey. We are the epicentre of the other's life. There cannot be one where there isn't the other. Nothing and no one can get in the way of that.

Mortal medical peril cannot get in the way of that.

I think of my thoughts of recent times and I shake my head at myself. I veered off course and snared the man of every woman's dreams. So _what_ if I wasn't supposed to?So _what_ if that wasn't the plan for me?It's done and it is irrevocable. I make a vow at the side of my husband's potential deathbed, and I swear it as solemnly as I swore my wedding vows.

Never again will I apologize to the world that he is mine.

Never again will I agonize over the fact that he is mine.

Never again will I justify the fact that he is mine.

Regardless of the deviations, ours is still a classic tale of boy meets girl. Love is a subjective creation, a highly personal endeavor. There are no rules or obligations, there are no contracts. We tore up the contract, we cast it aside and we are madly, deeply and incontrovertibly in love. So I make my vow and I will live by it until my dying day, which could be tomorrow or sixty years from now. I close my eyes for a brief reprieve as an epiphany engulfs my very being.

I do not know when it will be.

I do not have the answers.

All I have is blind faith. Belief in the love story that never should have prospered, conviction in the Christian and Anastasia web of wonder. I cannot offer him medical relief, I cannot offer him his sight and senses, I cannot offer him his mind and body.

But I can offer him faith.

Faith in us.

And sometimes, faith is all you—

" _Ana! Ana, I... I think he just opened his eyes."_


	5. Choices

There's no hope like false hope.

He wasn't opening his eyes, he wasn't making his way back to us… he was convulsing. Time stands still as his strong body spasms and jerks uncontrollably. Machines scream and wail in alarm, neon graph lights zig zag frantically. His thickly cast arms and legs twitch with a sickening rigidity. The wires that spew from him at every angle twist with his involuntary spasms. Grace stiffens for the most minute of moments, trapped in a mother's misery. But the doctor in her stirs a nanosecond later and she leaps from her seat.

Dr Moore sprints into the room like an athlete chasing the Olympic Flame.

His entourage of minions and a shower of nurses are hot on his heels. There is a bubble around me, it's like a full fish tank… but it's upside down, covering my head. The pressure builds in my eardrums and I'm running out of oxygen. Everything is happening in this weird, watery haze. They're trying to remove Grace from his side, Dr Moore is shouting at her… but she's not budging. But she needs to budge, because she's too close. She's like me. Christian is her life, albeit in a different way, and her objectivity is in the minus figures.

Suddenly, I know she needs to step away.

Her shoulders are freezing under my clammy grasp. She shoots me a look of panicked shock as I gently drag her away with molten fear in my heart. We cannot help him, medically. We are family and family cannot make the tough choices, assess the difficult situations. Dr Moore and Company are the best of the best and we have no choice but to trust in them. Observe with an overbearing presence, absolutely, but trust all the same. I don't have to speak the words to her, she knows it deep within herself and Dr Trevelyan-Grey puts the fate of her son in the hands of another.

Her own hand slips into mine and I hold it tight.

There are no tears. Tears won't help anyone, saline won't cure a thing. He _will_ be ok. I don't know what this is, but he'll come back from it, he has to. Medical mumbo-jumbo drops from the air like acid rain. I don't speak their language, I don't try and understand. But Grace does, and she pales and pales with every additional word they speak. I squeeze her hand even tighter. We are out of the way, but we are still with him. One nurse asks us to leave, I don't answer her. Not with words, anyway. I'm giving them their space to work, but I sure as hell intend to stay right where I am, for as long as it takes.

They have my life in their hands.

Dr Moore is, even to my uneducated and untrained eye, a raw talent. His fingers are like a pianist's as they flutter over my battered Fifty, compressing here, squeezing there. He speaks softly, but his staff respond with a military swiftness. He analyzes the machines that continue to screech, he frowns in thought and he snaps to a decision. A seasoned nurse takes over massaging Christian's pulse and he advances upon us. He speaks to me, but he's really speaking to Grace. He knows I don't belong in their circle, but I'm the wife.

 _I'm the wife._

"The swelling on his brain is getting worse. It's what's causing this seizure. We're stopping it, but it'll happen again and next time, there's a significant risk of complete and utter brain death. As you're aware, he's barely over the threshold of being declared medically and legally braindead. If he loses even a fraction of a percent of activity… there will be nothing that I or anyone can do. I was hoping to stabilize him as best I could over the course of the night and assess all our options in the morning. But that isn't on the table anymore. We need to go in and relieve that pressure before it builds up and snuffs his brain out altogether and we need to go in now."

He breathes deeply.

He's passionate, energized.

But not about my husband. He is nothing more than a puzzle to him, I can see it in his eyes. He's excited. He's thrilled with the chance to fix the unfixable, to have his name attached to some new _method_ for years and years to come. He's probably been fixing to crown the _Moore Method_ since he spat out his first pacifier. I expect a sense of rage to batter me at this revelation, a burning indignation. But that's not what I feel. Quite the opposite as a matter of fact.

 _Relief._

I feel relieved. Because this man is a medical maverick and a medical marvel, and he is arrogant enough to believe he can do the undoable. He will not be cautious, he will not be concerned with insurance premiums and he won't hesitate in the face of reputational repercussions. He'll do whatever it takes, and I might not be a doctor… but I know that's the kind of approach Christian needs. It's the _only_ kind of approach that has any prospect of saving his life. I'm still underwater, I'm still suffocating… but I'm learning pretty rapidly that oxygen is overrated.

"You need to do whatever is necessary to save him."

My voice doesn't sound like mine, my words don't sound like mine. I should be humming and hawing, hesitating and hedging. But that Ana is gone, and this new Ana doesn't play that game. Grace squeezes my hand in agreement, both our gazes are still fixated over Dr Moore's head, watching the medical army battle to keep Christian in the here and now.

"Mrs Grey, that's not all."

Of course not. Of course that's not it.

"My treatment plan can no longer wait. There is no point in going in there, relieving the pressure and closing him back up for it to happen again. In his condition, he can only handle going under anaesthesia once, if even once. All that needs to be done, as a primary concern, needs to be done tonight if there's any point at all in proceeding. The risks are astronomical, they're not in your favour by even the wildest stretch of the imagination. There is a very real risk that he will stroke out and die on the table, there is a very real risk that he will bleed out on the table."

The hold on my hand is bone-crushing.

And welcome.

It's so, so welcome.

It keeps me grounded, tethered to the hell around me.

"I want to use an unconventional and contentious treatment plan. It's called PEMF. It stands for _pulsed electromagnetic field therapy._ It's used in the most extreme cases of TBI, or, traumatic brain injury. Basically, we're going to try and protect the small amount of healthy brain matter remaining to your husband by reducing inflammation. That is the basic nature of PEMF. But that alone won't help Mr Grey, he's too far gone. I need to shock his brain into regenerating healthy brain cells. There's a treatment that we would use in combination with the PEMF, it's called TES. _Transcranial Electrical Stimulation_. It's an approved method, whereby small and concentrated electric pulses are for all intents and purposes, injected into the brain. These doses are usually very small and very controlled."

He glances to Grace and I can see she's paling fast and hard.

"That's where things get tricky. Small and controlled won't cut it in this case, we need large and uncontrolled. We need a no holds barred approach, or we might as well throw in the towel now. I am going to remove the dead tissue that is safe to remove, then reduce the inflammation to the healthy tissue, before shocking the brain into effectively healing itself. The extent of your husband's injuries would usually remove these treatment options… but I am confident that if we can just keep him from bleeding or stroking out, we can repair enough to give him a sliver of a chance."

Once again, his gaze flickers to the Grey matriarch.

"Allow me to be blunt. You need to be as informed as possible and this is no time to sugar-coat the situation. This operation is either going to kill your husband on the table or it's going to let him fight on for another day. As it stands, and in my opinion, you have nothing to lose. With the condition he's in now, without radical intervention, he is _never_ going to wake up. He is never going to open his eyes, he is never going to move of his own volition and he's never going to be the man you married, or the man you raised. You came to me because I am the best of the best and this case is the worst of the worst."

He throws an eye over to the calming machines and my Fifty's heaving chest.

"He needs to go to surgery right now… or you need to come to terms with the inevitable."

We look at each other, Grace and me.

No words are exchanged. I can see her mind tumbling over and over Dr Moore's words, her forehead creasing with sharp fear with every passing second. I still don't know what he's talking about, but she does, and it terrifies her. Her eyes get wider and wider, her skin gets whiter and whiter. Her hand limpens in mine and I clench it swiftly, willing her to stay here with me… with him. I trust her judgment, I trust her medical opinion. But I know my answer before I speak it, I can feel it before I can understand it. I can only hope that she knows it too, feels it too.

When she gives a short, jerky nod, I know that she does.

I turn to Dr Moore and take the deepest breath of my life.

"I want your word that you will not stop. I want your word that you will do every single thing in your power as a doctor and a man. I want your word that you will push every boundary and defy every convention… I want your word that you will not leave that operating theatre without knowing that you did _everything you possibly could._ You give me that, Dr Moore, you look me in the eye and you give me that… and you can bring my husband into surgery. You don't, or you can't, and we're bringing him home."

There is no hesitation. There is no second-guessing.

He's an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, but he believes in himself.

It's not bluster.

"You have my word on all counts, Mrs Grey."

I feel sicker than I've ever felt in my entire life. I feel sicker than I did when Leila Williams was waving a gun in my face, professing her love for the love of my life. I feel sicker than I did when Jack Hyde was wreaking his havoc in our lives. I feel sicker than I did when Mia was kidnapped. This is the worst moment of my life. I know it can't get any worse than this, because I can't love any harder than this. There's no one on this Earth that my heart beats for like it beats for Christian Trevelyan-Grey. And right now, he's on his death bed, he's knocking on heaven's door… he's a split second away with every passing second, from leaving me forever.

There can be no worse pain.

I confirm the decision with Grace silently.

"Then go," I whisper, "Go now, before I can change my mind."

He nods and there's a certain something in his eyes that I can't decipher.

"Would you like a moment with him before we go? Just in case…"

Grace chokes on a dry sob as I shake my head with a conviction I didn't know I was capable of.

"I don't need to say goodbye to him, Dr Moore. He's not going to die. He wouldn't do that… he wouldn't leave me here without him. He knows I'm willing him to live, that I'm here, that _we're_ here… he'll do whatever it takes to come back to us. So, you just focus on what you have to do and let him focus on what he has to do…"

This time, the look in his eyes is easy to gauge.

He thinks I'm crazy.

And I know that he's never been in love.

Because love _is_ crazy.

The bed creaks as it's wheeled out and I find that odd. Everything is so new and sterile, I'm surprised that the wheels are rusty. The last flash of his coppery hair, still matted with his own blood, brings me back to my under-water reality. The room is suddenly empty. It's just me and Grace, we're alone. I'm not capable of speaking and thankfully, neither is she. We just stand there for an eternity before the creeping realization that he wasn't about to come walking through the door trickles in.

"He's going to be ok," she suddenly whispers, "He was always such a strong boy…"

I turn to her and ache for her aching.

"That's because you raised him to be strong, Grace. So… we just need to be strong for him. That's what he needs. That's… that's what we have to do." I glance around the empty room and fight the overwhelming, overbearing panic that dances like a fire around me, waiting to swallow me whole. I have to keep it together and standing still isn't helping.

"We should go down and find Carrick, Mia and Elliot. They need to know…"

We move as one, both grateful for something to, somewhere to go. The canteen is a bright and breezy room, at garish odds with the reason we're here. Christian's father and siblings look up as the door swings open and rise with terror splashed across their pale and withdrawn faces. Grace rushes to them, consumed with the need to reassure. I hang back, this is a moment for mother, father and children. I love the family I married into, but in that moment… without him by my side, I feel like an intruder.

Like an outsider.

Grace looks up and beckons to me as she holds a silently weeping Mia's hand. I move towards them before I realize that I just can't do it. I just can't look at the people who remind me so forcibly of Christian, I can't sit with them. I can't bring myself to do it. The panic is back and it's looming large. I swallow it down and wince as it lacerates my throat. I need a reason, I need an excuse… I need space to _breathe._

My bag.

I must have left it in Christian's room.

I need to get us some coffee.

I mumble my feeble excuse and they don't question it, because they see right through it. Their silent nods are a little too sympathetic to be believable. I can still see them as I turn and bolt back through the swinging doors. The stench of hospital is in the air as I stride through the corridors. No amount of fine art and expensive treatment can disguise the fact that this is a place where people come to die. This is a place where lives are torn apart, where weeping widows leave with the personal effects of their dead husband in a clear plastic bag.

It'll be hours and hours before I see Dr Moore again, if things go well.

It'll be minutes and minutes before I see Dr Moore again, if things don't go well.

Every second that passes without news is another straw to clutch at. By the time I get back to the hospital room, I have a handful of thin, wispy hay. It's been maybe ten minutes; Dr Moore is probably still scrubbing his hands. But I'll take my blessings wherever I can get them. Beggars can't be choosers. I think of him, all alone, a butcher with a god-complex and a medical degree standing over him. I can't be there with him, I can't go in there. I can't even watch. All I can do is wait and hope, and hope and wait. That's the role of the wife in this situation and for the first time in our newlywedded bliss, I hate the fact that I'm the wife. Because I can't _do_ anything. I can't fix it, I can't make it better and I can't make him open his eyes and ask me… _if I've eaten_ , or, _if I'm_ _really wearing that._

I never thought I'd miss his bossiness.

But I do.

I miss it so much it burns, it sizzles.

I miss his scent, I miss his strong arms around my waist. I miss his dark humor, his dry wit. I miss his overprotective overbearingness, I miss his sweet sultriness. I wish Dr Moore knew the kind of man he was operating on. I wish he knew how much Christian had overcome to be the man he is today, how easily he could have travelled a different, darker path. I suddenly regret not telling him about the fact that Christian is a philanthropist, quietly so, and about how he increased his workforce when all around him, his contemporaries were slashing theirs with a recession-tinged pickaxe.

I wish I'd explained to him that Christian's hard exterior is just a front, just a façade to hide the fact that he likes banana sandwiches and cheesy pasta. But I didn't, and he's probably looking down upon my unconscious husband right now, eying him like a mechanic. Christian is just a faulty engine to him, a defective product that needs to be fixed, even though all the other mechanics sneer and say he's only fit for the scrapheap, for spare parts.

I turn into his room and realize my bag isn't there.

But Andrea is, and she has a knife.

….

TBC

…


	6. Fight or Flight

"Shut the door, Anastasia."

Her voice is a quiet singsong in staccato. Her usually flawless hair is unkempt, straggly and splayed across her shoulders. Her clothes are expensive, as per the norm, but they're bedraggled, scuffed and dirty. Her face is pale and devoid of any emotion, save for this weird and almost malevolent twinkle in her blue eyes. She is the Andrea I knew, and she's not the Andrea I knew. Her slim hands fondle the large and serrated blade almost lovingly, her fingertips pressing against the stainless steel with sickening adoration.

"I won't ask again. Shut the door. We both know which one of us is faster."

That is a valid point. Even as fear slices through me, it's a valid point. I am not famed for my coordination and if I try and sprint out of here, chances are, she'll catch me. With a knife into the spine. Her eyes narrow as they fixate on my measured movements that I'm taking through a fog of terror. I close the door gently, never turning my back on her, never taking my eyes from hers. I cannot show the fear I feel. I can see it in her eyes… my pain would be her pleasure. A couple of years ago, I never would have seen it. But being with Christian has been an education, in all things.

And I'm used to the crazy bitches who hate me for having him.

They all have that look in their eye.

Murderous envy.

"What are you doing here, Andrea? You know the police are looking for you."

I keep my voice level and my tone calm. I need to establish some kind of a connection with this insane bitch, to try and bring her onside. To give her the illusion of a way out. Ray has taught me well and his voice rings in my head. _It's the panic that's gonna kill you or get you seriously hurt, Annie._ I move slowly, I want my back pressed against the wall. I'll need the physicality of it for momentum if she strikes. She watches me with an almost childlike curiosity, her oddly watered-down eyes flickering over every inch of my body.

"They're looking for me, yes, but they won't find me."

Her chipped nail polish glints as she runs her hand over the blade and whispers.

"Not in time, anyway."

I swallow.

"Not in time for what?"

"Not in time to interrupt this conversation," she replies quietly, softly. "I've wanted to have this talk with you for a very long time, ever since Mr Grey first became… interested, in you. You see, Anastasia, I knew from that moment that you were a real threat. His submissives, they were transient. They were nothing to be concerned with. But you…"

She takes a step closer and an aroma of neglect hits my nostrils.

I brace myself, analyzing her weak points… but she stops after one step.

"You were different," she breathes, sparks of hatred blooming in her eyes. "Mr Grey was animated about you, he was consumed by you. He was obsessed with your well-being, your safety, your happiness. And not in the same way he was with the others, with the submissives, no… this was something else. He was thoughtful in the presents he selected for you, the ones he had _me_ mail to you. He put time and effort into choosing them, he had never done that before. I knew then that you were dangerous, that you were going to come between me and him and the life I knew we could have together."

She takes another step closer and I resolve to aim for her nose, before kicking her legs out from under her. She's not used to holding a knife, that much is painfully obvious and of some minimal comfort. But she has fury on her side, a slow burning rage that's finally melted to the quick. That kind of rage is a powerful weapon in its own right. She takes another step closer and there's maybe five feet between us. She's getting too close, she's getting far too close. My eyes flicker to the glass panel in the door and there's nothing or no one there to help. Grace, Carrick, Elliot and Mia won't be surprised and alarmed when I don't come back, they'll think I just needed some time alone. And I am, alone.

All alone.

"I tried to slow things down, tried to divert his attention. I thought… after I paid Jack Hyde to try and seduce you, you'd fall for it and I'd subtly let Mr Grey know and he'd kick you the curb. But that didn't work out, you were _loyal,_ and Jack overstepped his mark, allowing Mr Grey to be the hero. _Your_ hero. So, then I had to think of something else and I realized that Leila was a solid shot. She's nuts, you know. Batshit crazy, but pliable, impressionable. I befriended her, cajoled and coached her. I gave her the address to your apartment, Mr Grey wasn't scheduled the free time to hang around, he was supposed to be in a teleconference. But he blew it off and he saved you, for the second time."

Shame, definitive shame, suddenly shoots through her eyes.

"So, I had to take drastic measures… don't you see, Anastasia? That I had to take drastic measures? It wasn't supposed to be Mr Grey and Ros in _Charlie Tango,_ it was supposed to be you and Mr Grey. He told me to schedule it, that he wanted to take you up to take your mind off of everything, that you loved being in the air. Ros was never supposed to be with him, but he switched it up without going through me. The damage was supposed to impact the passenger side as much as possible, and the pilot side as little as possible. I paid good money for a good mechanic, and he assured me… Mr Grey was never in any real danger as long as kept his head, which I knew he would. You were supposed to be in the passenger side, _you_ weren't meant to make it… but alas, I was thwarted again. By chance and poor employee choice."

She takes another step closer and as shock swirls through me, I stay focussed.

One momentary slip in concentration could be fatal.

"Things went from bad to worse when Mr Grey figured out what I was up to, when he couldn't see how _right_ I was for him and how _wrong_ you were. He fired me, threatened to press criminal charges against me, completely and utterly turned his back on me. Forced me into a psychiatric facility full of drooling lunatics and mommy-issue clutching losers. I thought if I could just stick it out there, prove to the doctors and to Mr Grey that I was as sane as they were, I could get out and make my way back to him. But I couldn't, I couldn't handle being surrounded by those… people. I broke out, I always was a clever girl, and I made my way back to Mr Grey a little earlier than planned. Of course, by that time, you had tricked him into this sham of a marriage and in doing so, placed another obstacle in my path to true happiness."

She inches forward another step and her stale stench makes me gag internally.

"It wasn't my intention to run you two off the road. But when I saw that it was _you_ driving his precious R8, I was beside myself. You understand, don't you? Me being beside myself? He never let anyone drive that car, it's like his first-born child. But there you were, _Anastasia Steele,_ the thorn in my side… at the wheel, with the biggest smile on your face. You were laughing, you were both laughing. I'd never seen Mr Grey laugh like that before, he was always so serious. And you did that, you made him laugh like that… like I never could. Your wedding rings were on both of your fingers, they glinted in the sun. It's like you were mocking me with your happiness, the happiness you didn't deserve… the happiness you stole from me."

She breathes deeply and over my hammering heart, I can barely hear myself think. I could strike now, she's not expecting it. I could have her on the floor before she can draw her next breath. But the knife is perilously close now, aimed directly at my heart. One wrong lunge, one lucky strike and it'll carve through my aorta like a hot knife through butter. No, now is not the time to strike but it's coming… she's getting to the end of her tale, the one she has to get out, and then she's going to put that knife to use.

It's either going to me that hits the floor, or it's going to be her.

And it's not going to be me.

Christian needs me.

"Do you have any idea how long I've loved him, Anastasia?" she whispers. "Do you have any idea how hard I've loved him? How I've longed for him? Do you have any idea the sort of torture I went through on a daily basis, being so close to him and being unable to touch him? Do you know what that's like, being so in love with someone and them seeing you as nothing more than a damned good _secretary?_ Having them have no idea whatsoever that you'd lay down your life for them, that they're your first and last thought of every single day, that you've planned out your life together?"

Tears of desperation and dejection pool in her eyes.

"No," she answers herself softly, "You don't. Because you were a soft little virgin when you tumbled into Mr Grey's office, weren't you? He was your first and your last love. All you had to do was flutter those eyelashes and the deal was done. You didn't put in any legwork, you didn't press his shirts or order his lunch. You just swooped in with your long legs and your pale skin and you took him from me. What sort of woman does that to another woman? A _slut,_ that's the sort, nothing more and nothing less. And a man like Mr Grey was never meant to end up with a slut from some backwater shithole. A man like Mr Grey was always meant to end up with someone like _me."_

There's only two feet between us now, she's been inching forwards.

The time for talking is rapidly running out.

"So, the equation is pretty simple isn't it… simple, simple, simple… there can be no _Mr Grey and Andrea_ while there's still a _Mr Grey and Anastasia._ So, you have to go. You have to go and never come back. And I know someone who has experienced the love of Mr Grey can never go willingly and not come back. So, you have to go unwillingly and permanently. You understand that, don't you Anastasia? That you have to go permanently? Otherwise, you'll just come back… like a cockroach. See, I _know_ that when you're out of the picture, Mr Grey will see sense. I'll convince him that I was framed for everything, that I was as astonished as he was at all that stuff on my computer. He'll need help throughout his recuperation, I can be that help. I can explain to him how you split, how the thoughts of taking care of a broken man was too much for you to bear…"

Her smile is haunting.

Her lips are cracked, her teeth yellowed.

There's only one foot between us now.

"You should never have done that interview, Anastasia," she whispers. "Miss Kavanagh is remarkably unremarkable, she wouldn't have captivated him like you did and your life could have followed its correct course. And Mr Grey would have realized that I am the sort of woman that can satisfy him, in all things. But that's ok… it's ok… I'm going to correct the problem. Because I'm done asking myself… _what does she have that I don't?_ Because I know the answer. You don't have anything that I don't have, I'm prettier and smarter than you, I'm willing to do the things that you think you're too good for, too idealistic for. I just need Mr Grey to see that and once you're out of the picture, he will… he _will."_

She smiles and it's a horrifying sight.

It's the smile of a complete and utter lunatic.

"If it's any consolation… it'll be quick, it'll be quick and relatively painless."

An interminable eternity passes as we stare at each other. We're nearly nose-to-nose and I'm eying her with a defiance I never thought myself capable of. The fear has left me, self-preservation fills me. It is better to wait until she strikes, to use her own momentum against her. She's about the same weight as me, but she has a slightness about her that I don't. She looks tired, hungry and thirsty… three things I can use against her. The knife is palmed in her right hand, the handle glistening with sweat. She's nervous about using it, she's uneducated about it. Another thing I can use against her. I can't help but try one last step at rationalism, no matter the provocation.

"Andrea, if you kill me… you're going to jail for the rest of your life. How is that going to build a life for you and Christian?"

"Mr Grey," she snaps with a bite. "Call him Mr Grey."

"Mr Grey," I correct with a conciliatory politeness. "How will killing me and serving life behind bars build a life for you and Mr Grey?"

She sneers.

"You underestimate me, Anastasia. Once you're no longer breathing and taking what isn't yours, I'm going to make a call and a clean-up crew is going to make their way to this room and… make the place all nice and fresh. By the time they're finished their work, your corpse will be someplace where it'll never be found, and this room won't have a spec of evidence in it. Once I'm done here… it'll be like Anastasia Steele never existed. You have no idea how long I've dreamt of this moment, trust me, I have considered all eventualities and possibilities… another reason why Mr Grey belongs with me, our minds think alike. Yours… is a writer's mind, confused and undisciplined, you two were never meant to be."

She offers an oddly gentle smile and I brace myself.

She's raising the blade inch by inch.

"Goodbye, Anastasia. I hope that you find-"

Her wrist is small and slim in my grasp as I grip it like a vice. Her eyes widen in shock, she tries to twist away with a snarl. But I'm stronger because I have the reason to live that she can only long for. The knife glints between us, awaiting its victim with a cold anticipation. The tussle is strong and strenuous, but silent. There is no screeching or wailing. I am gaining the upper hand, she was caught off guard and still hasn't regained the lost ground. I launch myself away from the wall with a small snarl, the hilt of the knife leaning towards her filthily clad chest. She writhes in my grasp, my unrelenting grasp, and reaches for my face. I twist away, Ray's voice singing in my head.

 _Never, ever let them near your face, Annie. Your eyes are your weak spot. Protect them._

My elbow smashes into her nose with a sickening crunch and blood spurts like a warm waterfall all over me. She staggers, shock and pain consuming her. The hold on the knife slackens and I wrench it, panting, from her grasp. Sweat slithers down my temples, my teeth are gritted and I'm fighting for my life. I have the knife now, I could end it here and now. But murder is never something I've aspired to, and I can end this without taking the life of another, no matter how much that other may have provoked it. She's coming for my face again and I allow her to venture just close enough before slamming my fist into her throat, spasming her windpipe and sending her gasping and crumpling to the floor, retching and gagging.

For once, I'm glad I subconsciously listened to Christian's nagging about dressing for the elements. Ripping the thin scarf from my neck, I kick her over onto her stomach and yank her hands to interlock behind her back. Ray's knot tying sermons are as useful as they're ever going to be as I truss her up tighter than tight. She's beginning to recover; the wind is beginning to trickle into her throat and she's writhing. One swift and breathless kick to her stomach puts paid to that and scooping up the knife, I sink to the floor beside her in complete and utter spent exhaustion.

But there's no time.

Staggering to my feet, I spy the security call button on the wall and bounce off of it with impunity. It takes exactly ninety-one seconds for two well-built men with intelligent eyes to come bursting through the door. This really is an excellent facility. They gape at the seen they're greeted with and tentatively, the one closest to me takes the knife I offer to him, handle first. Swiping a hand across my drenched brow, I blurt out the story to them in dribs and drabs and once they're over their shock, they're heaving Andrea to her feet.

She's swaying but she's still conscious, deathly pale and pained, but conscious.

"You're a _joke,"_ she spits, "You're a fucking joke, Anastasia Steele. You can't keep a man like Mr Grey happy for long. In a way, I'm glad he's half dead, he's better off that way than having to suffer you on a daily basis in full consciousness. I hope he never wakes up, I hope he _dies_ rather than-"

She says no more, before she's dragged away.

It's hard to talk with a fist in your mouth.

…..

TBC

….


	7. Awake

Three days.

Three excruciating, never-ending days. They blur into one, melting together at the seams. Dr Moore battled and battled, he pushed the boundaries further than they were every meant to be pushed. He and Grace warred and plotted, the rest of us unable to decipher their language, to read the charts they pored over, to decode the scans they stared at. Surgery went on for seventeen hours. Dr Moore didn't take a single break. Not even to use the bathroom. He shines with an almost godly aura to me now. When he walks into a room, I don't care about his supreme arrogance, he's earned it.

He _is_ the god given gift he thinks he is.

He really is.

Christian's head is wrapped in layer upon layer of medicated gauze. A team of nurses change his bandages every three hours and Dr Moore arrives to examine the surgical site, takes notations, speaks with Grace and leaves. I don't ask him questions any more, his answer is always the same. His hand is warm in mine and I interlock our fingers, fiddling with his wedding ring, remembering the brief bliss we lived through, our newly wedded bliss. Anger bubbles inside me and, as usual, I swallow it down.

Andrea is being dealt with.

The authorities have her, she's in the system.

She's someplace with heavy sedatives and wrought steel bars.

She can't hurt him.

She can't hurt us.

There is some solace in that, there is some security in it. But neither solace nor security can heal my wounded fifty. Dr Moore says it was a miracle he came through the operation, that his heart stopped twice, that he was clinically dead for sixty-three seconds. That he came back, that he pulled through, that he battled on… just like I knew he would. The scans of his brain are inconclusive. They're neither indicative of good news or bad news. The swelling has gone down, the scarring has been minimised but… it's a waiting game now.

Dr Moore and Grace explained it to me in the bluntest of layman's terms.

Christian is either going to wake up, or he isn't.

Christian is either going to live, or he isn't.

The surgical intervention used is so new, so undocumented, that there is no set procedure to follow, no signs to look out for. That's why his scans are so useless, we don't know how his brain is going to react, we don't know what we're supposed to be looking for. Dr Moore's aim was to regenerate his damaged brain cells, to electrically kickstart his brain into action, to reboot his system. He said his mind was like a computer, like a central processing unit, and his CPU had a virus. We've done all we can to kill the virus, to clean it out of his system… but we won't know if we've been successful in doing so until he wakes up.

If.

If he wakes up.

Microsleep is all that's keeping me conscious right now. Brief, unintended bursts of sleep scratch the surface of my body's screaming need of rest. That's the one sticking point between Christian's family and me. They want me to go to a nearby hotel, to bathe and to sleep. To reenergize. That's impossible, that's about as impossible as tying a string around the moon and pulling down to Earth.

Because that would mean leaving him.

Alone.

Without me.

Unthinkable.

My hair is matted to my scalp, my teeth are thickly coated with plaque residue and I'm pretty sure that the stagnant scent on the air is all on me. And I'm right where I want to be, I'm right where I need to be. He could wake up any moment, he could open those gray eyes, those unique eyes, at any second. And the first face he sees has to be mine. He'll be craving that reassurance, the knowledge that I didn't run. That I didn't leave him when he needed me the most. Hours blow past us and a steady stream of people hum around me. Grace, Carrick, Mia and Elliot flutter in and out, in and out. The barrage of nurses and Dr Moore arrive on the three-hour mark, every three hours.

Food is deposited in front of me.

It smells good.

Grace urges, no, nigh on begs, me to eat.

It makes the corners of my lips twitch.

She has no idea just how very like her son she sounds.

I don't know what time it is as I shovel some sort of chicken into my mouth. Sycophantically I chew and swallow, swallow and chew. She watches me with an almost indecent appreciation, and I'm eating for her. I refused to yield to her plea for respite, the least I can do is eat. Her freshly showered scent washes over me and I drink it in, handing her my empty tray without a word. I am saving my words, all my words, for him.

I have so much I want to say.

But I won't say them until he wakes up.

He needs to hear them.

Consciously.

The sudden urge for the restroom grips me and I scowl, wincing as my dry skin crackles under the pressure of my displeasure. The en suite in Christian's room has faltered under the weight of an unexpected stream of visitors. The nearest bathroom is on the floor directly above is, many feet away from him. Grace spies my discomfort, and raises a brow.

"Go, Ana. I'm here and Carrick, Mia and Elliot will be back in a few minutes."

Her tone is gentle but firm.

My stomach rumbles with need.

I glance from him, from his lifeless, listless form to her. To the kind of mother I one day hope to be and nod, rising stiffly and slowly. He will be ok with her, she will take care of him. I can go. My legs are slow and numb as I walk through the sterile halls. It must be night time. It's dark outside. I don't take the elevator, I need some physical exertion to feel moderately human again. The stairs grind on my hamstrings, pain shoots through my calves and I relish it.

Because I'm terrified of never feeling again.

I'll take the physicality of pain over the necrotizing nature of numbness.

All day, every day.

The restroom is empty and cool. I slip into the first cubicle and when I emerge, I see the plush armchair in the corner of the room. This really is a facility worthy of Christian Grey. Drying off my hands, the chair is calling to me in this weird and almost hallucinogenic way. Like a mirage, like the false spring of cool water in the middle of the Sahara Desert. I cross to it, run a hand over its suede exterior and sit tentatively down upon it.

It's comfortable.

It's really, really comfortable.

The chair beside Christian's bed is not comfortable.

It's really, really uncomfortable.

A blackness is forming at the edges of my mind, sweeping in like a vignette. I feel my head lolling backwards, but it no longer feels like my head. I'm disembodied, a clean break between mind and matter. My brain is shutting down, I know it, but I can't stop it. The vignette is getting stronger and stronger until the artificial light completely fades and there's nothing left but a bottomless black pool of unconscious clarity.

I awake with a start.

With a side-splitting start.

I have no idea how long I've been out as panic grips me and I'm scrambling from the chair like a deer on ice. The door springs back from the wall as I wrench it open and I, ignoring the shooting pain in my legs, sprint down the stairs back to Christian's floor. Guilt is my only companion as the sounds of my frantic steps reverberate through the empty halls.

How long have I been away from him?

What time did I leave, what time is it now?

Crap.

No watch.

Double crap.

Cell is dead.

I'm out of breath by the time I sprint around the final corner. I can hear voices, a mixed bag of murmured voices, each with a different pitch of frenzy. The bottom drops out of my stomach. There shouldn't be enough people in his room to create such a buzz of activity. Excluding me, there can only be one other visitor at a time. There's at least… five people in that room right now. The bottom drops clean out of my stomach, my windpipe threatens to close in.

There's a window, in Christian's room.

It has blinds of course, but they're open right now and as I screech to a halt, I can see the cause of the commotion. The door is wide open, so I can hear the cause of the commotion. The world stands still and I'm underwater again. There's an ocean worth of pressure in my ears, I can't hear my own breath, I can't feel my own heartbeat. My mind is splitting away from my body again, my eyes communicating a message that my brain can't bring itself to believe.

Open.

His eyes are open.

Open.

His mouth is open.

Holy shit… holy _shit_ … he's _talking,_ well by the looks of it, he's slurring, but still… he's _conscious._ Dr Moore is scribbling frantically, shining a torch into his eyes with an indecent haste. Grace, Carrick, Elliot and Mia hover over the bed with anxious excitement carved into their faces. I can't move. My legs are leaden, my feet are fastened to the floor. My breaths come in short, sharp hitches as I watch him feebly follow the light Dr Moore is shining and mumble softly in response to a question I can't hear.

I'm frozen.

Here.

In this hallway.

The miracle I prayed for is in that room and I can't bring myself to go in there.

A small trickle of blood works its way through my legs and I shuffle them slightly to the right, inching towards the open door like a cold-water-shock victim to a life buoy. No one notices me as I stiffly appear in the doorway, clutching the frame tighter than tight to keep me above water. I can hear better now; their voices are swimming through the ocean of emotion sloshing in my ears. Grace is spieling off some medical mumbo jumbo to Dr Moore, before translating his answers to her husband and children with a pronounced patience.

My lungs lay flaccid in my chest.

Nothing to inhale.

Nothing to exhale.

Time stands still as I taste their words, work them through my mouth, feed them to my brain.

 _I believe we have reason to be very cautiously, optimistic…_

 _There's a long, long road ahead and the future is uncertain, but this is promising…_

 _We cannot assess his physical state until he is mentally stronger…_

 _The possibility of partial or total paralysis is still extremely high, prepare yourself…_

 _All in all, this is better than we could ever have hoped for…_

 _He's a fighter, Dr Grey, your boy is a fighter…_

He stirs once more and all eyes, including mine, swivel to and fixate upon him. Grace slips her hand into his, the only parts of his anatomy that escaped complete and utter devastation. Carrick's arms immediately drape over Elliot and Mia's shoulders and they all stare desperately at his slowly parting lips and his glassy, unfocussed eyes.

"Gr… Grace?"

Tears pool into her eyes as she nods with a mother's pride. Carrick lets out a small gasp of air and Elliot presses a soft kiss atop Mia's head.

"Yes, baby, yes. It's me, I'm here, we're all here."

He blinks sluggishly, his gray eyes roving around the room in turn. He cannot see me, Grace stands between us, but I see his gaze focus on each member of his family in turn. I hear their names uttered in his voice, in his muted, sluggish and very confused, voice. But _his_ voice, it's _his_ voice nonetheless and a surge of electricity sparks throughout every vein and ventricle in my body. He knows them, he knows who they are, he's _not_ braindead. He doesn't sound much like himself and his speech his extremely hindered and broken, but he's _talking._

And he knows exactly who his family is, exactly who _he_ is.

He knows exactly what's important.

Grace suddenly senses my presence and turns, with tears of happiness shining in her eyes, extending her free hand to me in a burst of serenity. My legs are working again, my body is whole once more. He's alive, he's really, really alive. His mind is his own. Dr Moore's dire warnings ring around and around in my brain, but I push them down. I compartmentalize. This is the starting point of a long, long road but I would walk this road for the rest of my life if it means he isn't going to be taken from me, from us. I will commit my life to this road, no questions asked. I asked for a miracle, and I got it. There can be no limit on the repayment needed for that blessing, no sacrifice that can't be made. Healing him, making him as whole as he can be… that's my purpose now, my life's work.

My raison d'être.

All eyes are on me as I approach his bedside, Mia is practically salivating with joy as she watches me advance. I can tell it takes all she has to give, but Grace slips her hand from his and extends it to me, and I fit like a glove in her stead. I'm underwater again, but this time, I'm happy to be drowning. I'm ecstatic to be under the ocean with him, consciously content to lay on the seabed and watch the reactivity of his pupils as he slowly casts his eyes up and upon me.

An intense and burning pain suddenly rips through my chest.

I have experienced this pain only once before.

When we were apart.

When I realized I couldn't be apart from him.

When I realised the terrifying extent of my love for him.

His hand is cool and soft in mine. The firmness of it astounds me, the familiarity, confounds me. So much has changed and yet, some things, are so achingly unchanged. His hand is as it ever was. If I close my eyes, his hand is in mine as we walk along the lapping waves on our honeymoon. But I don't close my eyes, they're wide and alert and they're drinking him in with every blink. I hold my breath as he opens his mouth slowly, the skin of his lips parting with a soft, slick grace. His first words to me, in this moment, will remain with me forever. They'll be seared into my brain, same way as the first time he said _laters, baby_ to me is locked away in the vault of my long-term memory. Five sets of breath are being held as he struggles to find the words, gazing up at me with an orbed gaze, five sets of eyes widen as he battles to form the broken, stuttering syllables.

"Why… why are you… here, Leila?"

…..

TBC

…...


	8. Deja Vu

"I don't understand, Ana, who _is_ Leila and why did Christian think you were her?"

Grace is looking at me with burning bewilderment and my brain isn't burning enough neurons to keep up. There are so many emotions vying for poll position within me and it makes lying one hell of a difficult task. Relief is dominating the pool, I've never been more relieved in my entire life. It wasn't amnesia that confused Christian, it was _me._ The horror and pain that had lanced through me at his words had set me on a course for tears and terror, but that's something old Ana would do, would succumb to.

And I'm the new Ana, and the new Ana thinks things through.

I caught sight of myself in the ornate mirror that is mounted on his bedroom wall. I am haggard and filthy, I am pale and of a substantially lighter weight than I was before this nightmare began. My hair is darker under the numerous coats of grease that call it home and my lips are a cracked shade of pale pink. A soiled bandage covers the lacerations of my right arm. I stared at myself in the mirror and my words, seemingly spoken oh so long ago, played over and over in my mind and I saw what he saw.

Leila and I look alike.

In full health and liveliness _and_ in poor health and listlessness.

The last time Christian saw Leila, she was thin and pale, gaunt and lank. Her hair was a greasy mane, swinging into her face and she had a large and soiled bandage on her right arm, covering the lacerations of her own making. Her previously rosebud lips were watered down and cracked versions of themselves and she projected a misery so acute, so all-consuming, that it hung over her like an aura you couldn't escape.

He thought I was her, because I looked exactly like her on her darkest days.

And these are my darkest days.

But, they're a little lighter, now, he knows who I am.

He said my name, he corrected himself with a halting and gurgling breath, before panting with the exertion of his speech, fell almost catatonically into the deep sleep he currently slumbers through. And now it's just Grace and I that surround him, everyone else having been forcibly kicked out by an exasperated Dr Moore. And she's waiting for answers, answers that I don't have. I take a deep breath and longing for the hottest and longest shower of my life, formulate a lie that makes me squirm.

"Leila… is an old friend, from Harvard. They took classes together and she uhh… recently moved to the city and reached out to Christian to see if he had any openings at GEH. We just happen to look quite similar, and he was medicated and groggy. He was confused, that's all. Leila is no one."

Grace raises a slow brow.

"But… Christian didn't have any friends at Harvard, he told us as much?"

Shit.

Of course.

"Well… she's not a _friend_ per se, just an old classmate. You know how it is."

She looks at me with something close to suspicion but lets the matter rest and I exhale slowly. Christian's chest is rising methodically, and Dr Moore says his stats are good. I have to shower. I have to look like me when he wakes up again. I have to look like Ana, like his _wife._ I look over at Grace and as always, she seems to read my mind and gives me a gentle smile.

"Go, Ana. Go back to the hotel and take a shower, recharge. I'll be here with him."

I stand.

I have to go.

I survived him mistaking me for one of his many deranged and dangerous former conquests, but I won't survive another. He'll be ok with Grace for one hour, she's his mom for Christ's sake. I can go… I can… I don't want to, hell, I really don't want to. What if he wakes up again and I'm not there? What if he wakes up again and looks for me and I'm busy pampering myself at some hotel? Grace is urging me to go, and my feet move of their own accord. The sooner I go, the sooner I can get back.

So this is what fresh air feels like.

It's cold and crisp and I drink it in like a man languishing in the Sahara.

I have to wait a few minutes for a cab, but eventually one turns up, driven by a guy older than earth itself. There's a missed call from Detective Brooks on my cell and I ignore it. Cold as it may be, I don't need him anymore. Andrea is no longer a threat, security is no longer an issue. The only thing that matters is Christian and the way forward. The hotel receptionist hands me a key to the room I've never seen and before I know it, a cascade of steaming water sprinkles my shoulders and I breathe a sigh of relief as the first trace of cleanliness clings to me.

Thirty-three minutes later, I am scrubbed raw.

My flesh is soft, supple and pink.

Very pink.

I hurriedly dress in the first clothes I yank from my bags and dry my hair as quickly as possible. Looking in the mirror, I recognize myself again. I look tired and a little under the weather, but I look like Mrs Anastasia Grey, wife to mogul Christian Grey.

Not some psychotic wraith, armed and dangerous.

There's a cab sitting right outside the hotel and I thank my lucky stars, wondering slightly at the tinted windows. Cabs sure are different out here. There's a non-transparent divider between the back seat and the driver's seat. Weird. I give the address of the hospital and the shadowy form that I can just about make out nods, and starts the engine.

Okay… clearly not a talker.

Suits me right about now.

My cell lights and I see it's Detective Brooks again and that I've missed three more calls from his office. I reject the call. I don't need to concern myself with bumping his figures for his next promotion right now. Or ever.

I wonder if he's woken up again.

I hope he has and I hope he hasn't.

My mind turns to the next hurdles we are going to face. Christian's injuries are thermonuclear, they're not the kind of damages that can be fixed with rest and chicken broth. The panic that constantly threatens to swallow me whole wafts around my ankles like a black smog.

 _What if Christian can never walk again?_

He is a fiercely independent soul, he's a runner, he's… he's _Christian._ The idea of him bound to a wheelchair for the rest of his life terrifies me, but not for me, for him. I don't know if he can mentally cope with that kind of a lifestyle adjustment, it would be, to him, a cataclysmic catastrophe with a huge side order of emasculation. It would cripple him psychologically as much as it would physically. He's battled the odds thus far, to come back from a neurological death warrant. How much more fate can he defy? How much more could we possibly hope for? He's _woken up,_ he's been _talking…_ I'll take those things and cherish them for the rest of my life… but Christian?

I don't think it'll be enough for him.

I fight down the panic. I'm getting miles ahead of myself. We're only at the starting line of a marathon to beat all marathons. I have to be prepared for anything, I have to be equipped to deal with _anything._ Whatever he needs, that's what I need to be, need to do. A small smile plays about my lips as I remember his eyes widening to the size of saucers when he realized who I was, a split second after he mistook me for Leila.

 _A… Ana?_

 _Anastasia?_

 _You're… you're ok… you're ok…_

With the smallest but most sincere smile, he slumped back on his pillows, the exertion overwhelming and fell back into his medicated slumber. The way he said my name… it screamed reverence, it screamed remembrance. He knows exactly who I am, what we have. And I just need to hold onto that, to cherish it… till… come what may.

My cell vibrates yet again and yet _again_ it's with a call from Detective Brooks.

What _is_ it with this guy?

Can't he take a hint?

I ignore it.

I just want to get back to Christian, back to his side.

Where I belong.

My cell vibrates _again_ , and I look at it in irritated disbelief. This time it's three people calling at once, the top of the range phone that Christian insisted I have giving me three caller ID's and the option on who to answer. Detective Brooks, Taylor _and_ Sawyer are all apparently linked by some common desire and I sigh in defeat, reaching out for the hard-working device. I'll take Taylor, his voice is always a blanket of reassurance and I could do with some of that right now. As I lean over, I notice a red LED blinking in the corner of the cab's roof and wonder idly what it's for.

I gasp as the cab suddenly screeches to a halt with extreme force.

My phone flies off the seat and lands with a thunk on the carpeted floor.

The non-transparent divider is suddenly thrust open as the tell-tale sound of every door locking rings throughout the car. A sense of dazed confusion blankets me like a smog, but through the puffs of bewilderment, there is a serious pang of anxiety in my stomach and it's spreading like wildfire. I look up slowly and the most intense sensation of déjà vu curdles in my intestines and steadily works its way through my spine, constricting it with fear.

I've been here before.

I've lived this before.

It's Leila.

With a gun.

And it's pointed directly at me.

…..


	9. Just Breathe

I find myself descending into the weirdest, almost catatonic, state of serenity.

Leila, is a crazy person. Just like Andrea is a crazy person. And they share the same thread of insanity, the Christian Grey thread. In a way, I think I understand. I really do. I mean, if I were one of them, and I'd had just a teeny tiny bite of the forbidden fruit that is my husband, before being unceremoniously tossed from the orchard, I think I'd be crazy too. But, empathetic comprehension aside, there's a gun in my face and survival is the only consideration in play.

He needs me.

My voice is steadily calm as I go toe-to-toe with Miss Williams.

Round two is upon us.

"Evening, Leila," I say softly, "It's been a long time. How are you?"

Her eyes are weirdly orb-like. She radiates a lost, almost urchin-like sadness.

"What is it about you?" she whispers, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise to dance in the wind of her terrifying monotone. "Why does he love you so? How can he love you so? We look the same, we all look the same, but you're different to all the rest. So many things to tear you apart… so many obstacles to stumble over… and still, here you are, with a ring on your finger. _Why,_ Anastasia, _why?_ Please… _please…_ I have to know… I have to understand…"

A thin, emaciated hand, ghastly pale in color, reaches up to clench the lank hair.

She speaks to herself.

Whispers, to herself.

"Why wasn't I enough?"

My heart is beginning to quicken as I assess the deranged despair she languishes in. I walk a mile in her tattered, torn tennis shoes. I have everything she has ever dreamed of, I have everything she covets, longs for. And on the outside, we are mirror image, we stand on an even playing field. How can I explain to this broken, empty woman that I can't answer the only question that plagues her in the night?

There is no way to translate into mere words the love Christian and I share.

There was no choice in the matter, in our love story.

He was mine as I was his, from the moment we laid eyes on each other.

Call it fate, call it destiny, call it whatever the hell you want.

It is what it is.

Irrevocable.

Ray's voice, his self-defense plan, echoes like a long-lost memory in my mind.

 _If they want to talk Annie, let em' talk… keep em' talking…_

"Leila, listen to me. You were very special to him. Christian cared for you in the best way he knew how back then. You want to know why me and not you? You want to know how we can look so alike and be fated so unalike? Those aren't the questions you should be asking yourself, Leila. There is no comparison between you and me. Sure, we're similar on the outside, but we're nothing alike on the inside. You were everything he wanted back then, everything he wanted and more. You were a fantastic submissive, and his favorite, by a long shot. When you were with him, that was all he wanted, from anyone. Their submission. But people change, Leila, people change and as time went on… after we met… Christian changed… he wanted more."

Her dry, cracked lips move wordlessly for a moment.

A stab of bizarre sympathy slices my heart.

She looks like a confused, grief-addled child.

Just looking for an open pair of arms.

"I wanted more," she whispers. "When Master and I were together, I… started to fall in love with him. I'd never felt for any Dominant the way I felt for him. He thought he was so dark, a bad, bad man. But I saw the light in him, I saw the good in his eyes… Master is a beautiful man. We could have been beautiful together. I was careful, I took it slow… I didn't spring it on him… but he said no, he didn't try and stop me from leaving, from ending the contract. I was… nothing to him, nothing… and he was everything to me… is everything to me…."

So she saw the purity in my stubborn, self-deprecating husband.

I lick my lips and subtly glance at the door beside me, feeling my heart sink.

No physical locks.

Of course not.

"You weren't nothing to him, Leila. When you were missing, back in Seattle, he moved heaven and Earth to find you, to help you. And it wasn't just because of me and how you felt about me, he was concerned about you, about all that had happened to you… you weren't nothing to him, if you believe anything, believe that. Think about it, really think about it. You know the kind of strings he could pull, what he has the capacity to do, but when he found you in my apartment, with a gun in your hand… what did he do?"

The present-day gun, slips and lowers a little in her clammy, grubby grasp.

She stares at me as if I've asked her to reinvent the wheel.

Her sweaty brow furrows in concentration, in suspicious confusion.

"He… he sent you away… and gave me a bath…"

A reminiscent glow floods into her eyes and I suddenly see the gun in her hands as a useful object.

Breathe, I chide myself.

She's batshit crazy.

 _Breathe._

"Right," I croak, "And if you were nothing to him, and were always nothing to him, why would he have done that? Why would he have stayed with you, and sent _me_ away? Why would he have made sure you got the best help possible, paid for you to get the best help possible, if you were nothing but a contract to him? I promise, Leila, you were never nothing, you were always more than something. You came into his life at a time where he didn't know he was capable of more, capable of wanting something bigger. That's the only difference between us, Leila, _time._ And luck, I guess. Time and luck."

Her eyes narrow and her chest convulses with a halted, haggard breath.

"Master fell in _love_ with you… and not me… because of timing? Do you expect me to believe that? I might not be good enough to be Mrs Leila Grey, but I'm not stupid, Anastasia. There's more to this story than you're telling. You have some sort of trick, some sort of _play,_ some sort of hold over him. Master doesn't do hearts and flowers, he doesn't do rings and honeymoons. You've… you've _ensnared_ him, beguiled him and I want to know _how…_ I have to know how… so then I can do it, too. Don't you see? Then I can do it too and you… you can be the one out in the cold, wandering the streets, looking and looking but never, ever finding anyone like him, ever again…"

A vacant smile plays about her tight lips.

She murmurs under her breath in a sing-song voice of true insanity.

 _"_ _Ever, ever again…."_

Instinct tells me time is running out, that she won't be stalled any further. My mouth runs dry as my fight or flight reflex kicks into high gear. My eyes dart around the horrendously sturdy car and they spy no vulnerability, no clear path to safety. Her hold on the gun isn't slack, but it isn't secure either. A swift and unexpected swipe could dislodge it, but the chance of discharge and probable ricochet is too high. And it's just as the panic rises up inside me that clarity hits. My purse, the fight, the never-ending fight. I hate mace, Christian however, loves mace and insists I have a can in my bag, just in case.

I will never, ever sneer at him about security again.

That's what's gotten me into this freaking mess.

Stay cool, stay cool…

 _Bluff._

"Ok, fine," I sigh, "You're right. I didn't just change Christian or win him over in the blink of an eye. I had help, I had… unconventional help. It's complicated, I never thought I'd have to explain it to anyone… but if you're sure you have to know, I guess I can try."

My eyes drift to my bag.

"Or I could show you? I could show you what he sees when he looks at me?"

She's not even breathing now. Her eyes are fixated upon my bag and she's flooding with desire. She truly is unhinged, completely and utterly without sense or sanity. She's deliberating, analyzing. The possibility of trickery is paling in comparison to the possibility of answers, of hope. I hold my hands up innocently, and raise a brow. Her sunken gaze flits between me and my mirage-like purse, her mind spinning like a carnival ride.

Before finally, after a split-second eternity, she nods.

The mundane minutiae of wallets, perfume and make-up exasperate me as I root through the bag in search of the slim cannister that may well be the only thing standing between me and a bullet to the brain. My fingers slowly encase it as I concentrate on the ruse, on the provision of coveted answers. I can hear her breath quicken and her fingers twitch. Taking a deep breath and gripping the can firmly, I brace myself and hope for the best.

It's now or never.

I wrench the mace from my bag…

And everything goes to hell.

Shouting. There's so much shouting. Lights. There are so many lights. A cold wind whips into the car as the doors are suddenly ripped open and guns are trained on a cowering and petrified Leila. Sawyer swoops in like a militarised bat and disarms her with an ease that astonishes me, before dragging her bodily from the car, ignoring her spine-tingling screeches. Taylor's arms gently encase me, and I'm cradled in his grasp, breathing in the crisp air like I've never once done before. He extricates me from the scene, barking orders to Sawyer over his shoulder and carries me to a nearby SUV.

His voice is soothing, but carries an astonishingly unusual bark of reprimand.

"Mrs Grey, I say this out of sheer relief and unbending respect, but the next time I call you and _call_ you… you better pick up or… or so help me god, I will sing like a canary to Mr Grey."

As the adrenaline leaves me body and weariness plagues me, I nod.

"Taylor?"

Still holding me tight, he glances down with a gentle smile

"Mrs Grey?"

I muster up every ounce of energy that remains to me.

Only one thing matters now.

Matters always.

"Take me to my husband."

…..


	10. Go

He's asleep.

He's blissfully unaware of the mayhem that surrounds him, and I couldn't be more grateful for it. Andrea, Leila… they're threats that have been eliminated. They can't hurt him or us right now. I just wish I could say that they could never hurt us again, but that would be to repeat the mistake that led us to where we are. These crazy bitches that lust after my husband are intelligent, resourceful and riddled with delusions of their happily ever after with my Fifty.

I'll never make the mistake of letting either of them get close again.

Going to the hotel alone, that was a mistake.

Not answering Taylor, Sawyer or Brooks' calls, that was an even bigger mistake.

Marrying into Christian's world isn't something I've fully mastered yet. The dizzying highs and the crushing lows are still new to me, but as I resume my watch by his bedside and cradle his hand in mine, I resolve to get a handle on what it really means to be Mrs Anastasia Grey. Grace has asked dozens of questions before realizing that I just don't have the energy to get into it all, before allowing her briefing to come from Taylor and Sawyer.

They're all out in the hall right now.

I don't know what story they're feeding her.

It won't be the unedited truth, that's for sure.

For now, it's just me and him.

The enormity of his injuries hit home once again. His beautiful coppery hair is hidden under the swage of bandages, his body remains cocooned in thick layers of medicated gauze and casts. The machines that are regulating his blood pressure, heartrate and body temperature beep diligently in the background. Dr Moore will be in shortly to read his neurological chart, frown intelligently and leave. His hand is warm in mine and if I close my eyes, we're on the yacht with the sea breeze in our faces and the sun in our eyes. But that would just make the reality of opening my eyes all the harder.

This is my reality now.

And I have to accept it.

As if on cue, Dr Moore bustles in with one of his minions and barely spares me, the wife, a cursory glance. He twiddles with the knobs of some terrifying looking machine and makes a scrawling notation in his chart, murmuring under his breath to his underling. They turn on their heel and make to leave in tandem and it's only the sharpness of my voice that has them reluctantly stalling.

"Is there any change? Is there any sign of improvement?"

Dr Moore frowns down at me.

"Mrs Grey, Mr Grey's reaction to his surgery at this time continues to be remarkable. I am afraid you're just going to have to be patient. There are many, many hurdles to overcome and we haven't even begun the race. All we can do is take it hour by hour and day by day until he's… sufficiently stable. Only then can we talk about recovery or improvement."

He nods brusquely, the personification of supreme arrogance, and leaves.

Again, I love him, and I hate him.

Christian is a puzzle to him. He's not a person, a husband. He's just the premise of some ground-breaking article that will see his name in the medical stars. I am emotional enough to hate him for it and intellectual enough to appreciate him for it. Christian needs someone with that kind of selfish drive to keep him alive. Dr Moore is that someone.

Vaguely, I hear Grace's squawking reach squeaky levels.

Carrick arrives on scene, with Elliot and Mia in tow.

Taylor, the ever-stoic Taylor, does me the immeasurable favor of herding them all away. No doubt for some coffee and compassion. They won't get the full story, Jason is far too clever for that and far too versed in Christian's deep-rooted need for privacy to divulge anything that can't be casually explained away. He'll do what needs to be done down there, so I can do what needs to be done up here. It strikes me how much we both owe to Jason Taylor.

It's just as I'm pondering this, that it happens.

It happens again.

Those gray eyes. Those beautifully odd, permeating orbs that first quickened my pulse emerge from under medicated lids. Confusion clouds them, followed swiftly by panic. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't remember waking up before. He's disorientated. I stand and squeeze his hand with my heart screaming in my chest. I want to launch myself at him, I want to hold every part of him. But I must be gentle, he is not to be overwhelmed. His eyes dart to my face as I move into his view and the instant relaxation that occurs in them nearly brings tears to my eyes.

But I promised myself that I was done with crying.

"Hey you," I whisper softly, "Do you remember where you are?"

The real question I want to ask is… do you remember _who_ you are?

But baby steps.

Baby steps…

He blinks slowly and unable to move his neck, glances as far down at his broken, beleaguered body as he can. Panic returns to his eyes, intermingled with a cold dollop of resignation. His eyes slowly find my face again and his lips begin to part with almost cartoon-like slowness. I see the soft pink skin peel apart and see the white, glistening teeth as he tries to find the words in his sliced, diced and glued-back-together-again brain. My throat burns as I watch the once quick-witted, silver-tongued Christian Grey struggle to locate the most basic of syllables.

"A… Ana…"

I nod vigorously, squeezing his hand with bone-crushing encouragement.

Before checking myself furiously and loosening my grasp.

"It's me, baby, it's Ana. I'm here."

His eyes and what little of his face that is unobscured contorts with pain. His eyes rove over his body yet again, assessing his injuries with a wild and wounded cognitive function. I see his gaze start from his crushed ankles, to his shattered legs working all the way up to his splintered pelvis, fractured spine and near-on eviscerated neck. His eyes smoke over with something I've never seen before but as the panic blooms in my stomach, I know it's nothing good.

An eternity passes us by as frustration dogs his face.

His lips hover in limbo as he tries desperately to find the words.

"C… car cr… crash?"

The no crying rule is one of the hardest I've ever had to follow.

In another world, I would have allowed myself a brief grin at Christian's wry smile and quippy remark about my inability to follow rules in general.

"Yes," I say loudly and slowly, knowing he's a million miles away from hurried speech. "We were in a car crash. But you're going to be ok. You have the best doctor in the country at your beck and call and you've come out the other side of a major operation. It went well, Christian, it went really, really well. You did great. Everyone says so. You're going to be ok… everything is going to be ok."

The storm clouds in his eyes clap like thunder.

I barely hide my wince. His eyes rake over his hammered body once more and his lips once again hover in flight, his wearied brain struggling to put syllable and consonants together. I see fatigue threatening in the distance, he will not be awake for much longer. I'll make sure that whilst he sleeps, some of his prized belongings are shipped to his hospital room. That'll make the next time he wakes up a little easier on him.

"Go…"

His throaty rasp makes no sense and I stare at him in confusion.

"Go," he says again slowly, in a near gurgle. "Leave… Ana… I d… don't want you to… to stay with me… me like this… go…"

I don't even have the time to process my shock before it's intensified into the stratosphere.

"Leave, Ana. You di.. didn't marry a… cripple. _Leave me."_

My eyes prepare to leap from my face.

His eyes flutter downwards into a tortured respite from reality.

But not before his mouth slowly finds its way around another slow utterance.

"I don't want to see you again when I… wake up. You married a… man… that doesn't ex… exist anymore. Find yourself some… someone who can be a… pro… proper husband, Ana."

His eyes cement closed.

"Go, Ana… Anastasia. Go and don't… don't come back."

…..

A/N: Following on from, and with her approval, UndercoverSquint's idea of promoting love between authors I'd like to get on board with the recommendation system. This updates recommendation is anything by the said UndercoverSquint! Her strong and submissive series are sublime and her new story, Ember, is a refreshing divergence from canon FSoG whilst making you fall in love with Christian in a brand-new way!

Following further in her footsteps and with her approval, I've decided to address the many PM's I receive asking for a sneak-peak at upcoming chapters. I don't want to spoil updates for people who don't want to know, but if you leave a "Sneak peak please" in a review, I will PM you with a short expert from the next chapter to be posted soon! This applies to all my stories! X

Love and hugs,

Inks xx

…..


	11. Together

Grace looks at me with such sugary sympathy that my teeth grind on edge.

"Ana, honey, I'm sorry but…" her eyes trail to an uncomfortable looking Carrick, and the plea within them is obvious. He clears his throat awkwardly, his back tightly pressed against the hospital door that obscures my husband and pulls at his collar.

"Ana… just give him some time. He's a proud guy, always has been. He just needs… to adjust to his new reality. He'll come around, with time and some space to reflect."

The Grey matriarch and patriarch are standing firm.

Rage gurgles in my mounting blood pressure. They have no right. They have no right. I splay my hands against my thighs to prevent them from balling into fists. The urge to scream manifests in a strangling sensation in my throat. They cannot keep him from me, they cannot hide him from me, no matter what he says. These people, whom I love in my own way, are not the orbit of his world anymore. I am. I'm the goddamned wife. I try one more time to keep the peace, to prevent the outbreak of World War III.

"Carrick, Grace… this is the last time I'm going to say this nicely. I am going to see my husband, I am going to see him now and no one less than freaking God is going to stop me. Please, move aside. I don't want to fight with either of you but if you try and keep him from me… I will."

Grace's eyes shine with misery.

"Ana," she whispers, "This isn't what we want. Christian is adamant that he doesn't want to see you. He isn't in a-"

"Don't tell me what he is, or he isn't," I snarl, "He is my husband."

Grace and Carrick pale in tandem.

"That's just it, Ana," Dr Trevelyan-Grey murmurs, "Christian…"

She glances hopelessly at her husband and swallows deeply.

"Christian has instructed Carrick to file for the reappointment of his Power of Attorney… taking it from you and vesting it in him. When that's been finalized… he's further instructed Carrick to…"

I'm drowning.

I know what she's going to say.

And once again, I'm underwater. Except this time… I have no reason to float to the surface.

"To file for divorce," she finishes, quietly, unnecessarily. "We're trying to stall him, but you know how he is. He's adamant. He doesn't want you to feel obligated in any way to stay with him now that he's…"

Her eyes glaze over slightly.

"Different."

 _Different._

It's been two days since he told me to leave him and never come back. Yeah, I'd say he's different alright. A traumatic brain injury will do that to a guy. Grace and Carrick continue to gawk at me with that infuriating pity, acting as though they and they alone know their son's intricacies. I take a deep, calming breath to refrain from telling these people that they didn't know that their society climbing friend had their adolescent child climbing into her bed night after night. This isn't their fault, this isn't their fault… _this isn't their fault._

But I'm so angry that it's hard to remember that fact.

"Grace, Carrick… I might not be a doctor, or a lawyer… but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Christian isn't in his right mind. He can barely string two words together, can't stay awake for any more than a three-minute interval and has no bodily control or function. He doesn't know what he wants, or what he's saying and if either of you two think you're going to stop me from seeing him… you're sorely mistaken. I am his wife. His _wife._ You can't blockade his door and tell me he wants to file for divorce and expect me to just turn and walk away."

They swap pained expressions.

"Ana," Carrick says in an awful attempt at comfort, "Dr Moore has made it painfully clear that Christian cannot be stressed right now. He's nowhere near out of the woods and any… upset, could cause him to regress in progress. I am stalling as much as I can. I have drafted no papers and made no calls, but he's a bright man even in his current condition and he knows when he's being fobbed off. Seeing you will only make him all the more vehement that I follow his wishes. Trust me, give him some time and some space… Grace or I will call you when he appears to… settle down."

Anger bubbles inside me like lava erupting into goosebumps on the skin of my arms. Who the hell are they to dictate the terms of my own marriage to me? Who the hell are they to tell me when and where I may and may not see my own husband? They whiten slightly under my glare as a tumble of scathing questions rumble through my mind.

Where were Grace and Carrick when Leila was loose and deluded?

Where were Grace and Carrick when Jack was loose and deluded?

Where were Grace and Carrick when Andrea was loose and deluded?

Nowhere.

That's where.

 _Nowhere._

"Grace, Carrick… I have extreme respect for both of you. I really do. But hell will freeze over, completely thaw out and subsequently freeze over again before I leave this hospital without seeing my own husband. He is one step above brain damaged and one step above brain damaged people don't get to call the shots. That's why they're _called_ one step above brain damaged people."

They gawp in tandem as my speech trails off.

"So, the cliff notes version of this conversation is quite simple; please move."

Carrick opens his mouth to argue some more, but Grace's face takes on this weird contortion and she shushes him with a look. Taking his arm, she ignores his quizzical stare and moves him with her away from the entrance. She extends a hand invitingly to the door and gives me a small smile. In another world, in another time… I would agonize over what made her change her mind, over what she was thinking… but right now, in this world and time, I don't really give a damn and I push my way past them. But not fast enough to miss her whispered explanation to her bewildered husband.

"Christian is to her as you are to me, Carrick. Nothing will stop her."

I close the door softly on them and step into the alternate reality that this room represents. It's a little less sterile and clinical now. Grace has been nesting and Grey family trinkets and photos litter the bedside stand and windowsills. These are visible changes, immediately obvious, but there are no such obvious and visible changes in my husband. He's still as plastered, bloodied and bruised as he was when he arrived. He's sleeping now, his chest rising and falling reassuringly under an ocean of heavy casting. Slipping into the bedside seat, I cup his hand in mine and cherish the feel of him.

It's been two days.

They've kept me from him for two whole days.

With form filling, medical examinations and flat-out lies.

But no more.

No matter what he says, they say, or anyone says… I'm not leaving. If this man, this hopelessly selfless man wants to divorce me… he's going to need to limp into court under his own steam, with a cognitive function medically certified to be more than that of a vegetable and fight me for it. His hand is warm in mine and my heart is suddenly lanced with pain as I realize what's wrong, apart from the obvious, with the picture I'm sitting in. His hand is the same, his warmth is the same… but his wedding-ring finger isn't the same.

The ring.

It's gone.

It's not there anymore.

He physically couldn't have taken it off himself. He had to have asked his mom or dad to do it for him, or maybe Elliot or Mia. Tears of betrayal tickle my irises before I blink them furiously back in painful deference to my _no more crying_ rule. So he had his wedding ring taken off, Christian has never done things by halves… to him, it would make sense. The tying up of loose ends. To me, it's a slap in the face and a kick out the door.

But this isn't about me.

None of this is about me.

He stirs under my hand. Well, as much as someone as bodily encased as he is can stir. Panic prickles me. The last time we spoke, the last time he saw me… he told me to leave and never come back and subsequently began plotting with his parents to summarily divorce me. What do we have to talk about? Will he even want to talk to me? Or will he just start rambling on about cripples and separations?

His eyes are glazed and confused as he blinks them slowly open.

When they slide over to my face… they contort in pain.

My heart winces under the onslaught.

"Hey," I whisper, "How're you feeling?"

He closes his eyes and his anguish is palpable. Disappointment floods his immovable facial muscles. He's literally horrified at my presence. I never knew that I could experience the feelings of another human being so acutely. His anguish is my anguish. I feel like I did when I was thirteen and a social outcast. I feel like I did when I was fifteen and voted most _unlikely to lose her virginity before twenty-five_ in a cruel poll by my asshole classmates. I feel like I did when I was eighteen and Kate would bat off hungry admirer after hungry admirer who would then turn and assess me, the second option, before storming off in disgust.

Unwanted.

I feel unwanted.

I used to be able to cope with feeling unwanted. But I cannot deal with _this_ feeling, the feeling of being unwanted by him, by _Christian._ I gulp down some air and force the hurt right down inside of me. I don't have time for it. He doesn't have time for it. He's opening his eyes and his mouth slowly and my heart pounds painfully in anticipation of the next blow. How can this be my life? How can it have gone so terribly wrong?

"Ana…"

God, his voice is awful. Hoarse, slow and sluggish. Every letter is a struggle and the pain is etched into his face.

" _… leave."_

What was I hoping for? That he would magically change his mind, that his parents were lying? If he could, he would rip his hand from mine… but he can't. His eyes storm over and the beautiful gray eyes I fell in love with transform into terrifying claps of thunder. He twists his head away from me and winces with agony… he would literally rather be in pain and stare at the wall than look at me, his wife.

Anger, terrifying anger suddenly surges within me.

Kicking the chair out from under me, I round his bed in three strides. On the way over here, I had been committed to two aims. One; bypass the bullshit end-arounds and well-intentioned but infuriating family members that were keeping me from my husband. Two; to be patient, kind and understanding with said husband and his insane, intensely hurtful but nonetheless confused, wishes. One out of two isn't that bad. His bandaged head seems to shiver with exasperated anger as I lean over him and suck in a hell of a lot of air.

"Now you listen to me, Christian Grey, because I'm only going to say this the once. I am your wife. I am your godamned _wife._ You know… for richer, poorer… in sickness and in health, all that kind of stuff. Do you remember that? The big white wedding, the vows, the dancing… the never-ending barrage of honeymoon sex. The house buying, the house decorating, carrying me over the threshold. All the husband and wife stuff that we did together because… oh yeah, that's it… _we are husband and wife._ You don't get to tell me to leave, you don't get to file for divorce and you sure as hell don't get to write me out of your life because things aren't going the way we want them to, or planned for. That's not what a marriage is. That's not what a marriage is about."

Tears threaten once more, and I banish them with a constricting throat.

His eyes are growing wider and wider.

My voice is getting higher and higher.

"You're a proud man, I get it. You're a physical man, I get that too. Lying in this bed and being dependant on others is hell for you, I know that. Not being the master of your own universe is terrifying to you, I know that too. But none of those things, none of those fears or feelings is _any_ reason to even _think_ about giving up on us. If it were me in this bed, with these injuries… tell me you'd walk away if I asked you to out of nothing more than wounded pride and well-intentioned but misplaced selflessness. Tell me you'd leave me because I couldn't run a marathon or climb a freaking mountain… you look me in the eye and you tell me that… and I'll go. I'll leave. I'll do what you want and walk out of your life… but only if you can honestly tell me you'd do the same if the roles were reversed."

I reach out and grip his other hand and kneel by his side.

"You're my everything, Christian," I whisper thickly, my rage dissipating and heart-wrenching pain replacing it. "You're my morning and my night. My everything begins and ends with you. When I thought you weren't going to make it… I knew I wouldn't be able to go on, that I would have literally no reason to keep going. Please don't do this to me. Don't take this second chance that Dr Moore or God or whoever has given us and throw it away. We've been through so much, beaten the worst of odds… this is just another hurdle we have to clear. But we have to clear it together, always together…"

A solitary tear breaks the _no more crying_ rule and trails down my right cheek.

I have no more to give, no more bargains to strike.

It's up to him now.

My life is in his hands.

Then again, it always has been.

"Ana," he croaks, his lips moving so slowly it's hard to make out the words. "I am… this is not what you agreed to. You married a twenty-seven-year-old man, fit and healthy. You didn't marry a broken shell of a man that can't even feed himself. I won't burden you… I won't weigh you down with a life revolving around a man like I've become…"

His face contorts in pain as he manages another whisper.

"I love you too much for that. I love you enough to let you go."

His words are so slow, and the exertion of them are taking a visible toll. He's whitening and fading but… his words are more cohesive than they were two days ago. He's not stuttering and stammering. That has to be a good sign. Please God let it be a good sign.

"I love you enough not to be let go," I counter softly. "I won't go, Christian, I can't."

His eyes shimmer with… oh my god… his eyes are shimmering with tears.

"Please, Ana," he murmurs. "Don't do this. Don't ruin your life by shackling it to mine. Dr Moore has been blunt with the truth. It's unlikely I will ever walk again. It's unlikely that I will ever have bodily function below the neck again. It's unlikely that I'll ever work again. Everything that I was, I no longer am. This isn't what you fell in love with."

I shake my head, amazed by his blindness.

Gently, I touch his head with the tip of my finger and trail it down to where his plaster encased heart beats, clinging onto life.

"These are what I fell in love with, Christian," I whisper. "Your beautiful heart and your incredible mind. Everything else was always a bonus, icing on the cake. You are what you always were, and I will always love what you've always been. Please… stop this. Stop this agony. There's so much pain around us already… don't add to it. Don't make my decisions for me. I have never allowed you to make up my mind for me before and I don't intend to start now. So unless you can honestly tell me that you would walk out of my life if I was the one in this bed… I'm not leaving. No way, no how."

His face crumples slightly and my throat burns with the want of unshed tears.

I grip his hand even tighter in mine.

"Would you? Would you walk out that door and never come back, Christian?"

His gray gaze is hidden from me as he closes his eyes slowly.

"I would never leave you, Ana. Never."

Relief scalds me, and the _no more crying_ rule rolls its eyes as hot saline flows down my cheeks unimpeded. I can't hold it back any more. I just can't. My voice is thick as he opens his moistened eyes and I intertwine our fingers together tightly. I desperately try to prevent a flood of full-on sobbing as I find the words before he falls victim to his ever-growing fatigue.

"Then you agree that we'll face this together, no matter what your recovery may bring… we'll take it on together, just like we've taken on everything and everyone else that has tried to get in our way?"

He's nanoseconds away from medicated sleep.

Every moment of consciousness is a battle for him.

I hold my breath as his lips, his perfect lips, form the answer that will either piece my heart back together or shatter it into a million bloodied pieces. His head slumps deeper into his pillow as his exhausted breath intermingles with his softly spoken answer and my world implodes with raw, pure emotion.

"Together."

…..

A/N: Today's recommendation is _Inauspicious_ by the very talented _annabaker71_. Yes, it's a cheat fic, but it's so freaking amazingly done that I firmly believe even the most anti-cheat-fic of us can look past their aversions and thoroughly enjoy it. It's a rollercoaster ride that refuses to succumb to HEA pressure and is all the richer for it.

If you would like a sneak peak of the upcoming chapter to this story, just leave a "sneak peek please" in a review and I'll PM you soon!

Till next time,

Inks

….


	12. The Right Time?

Dr Moore stares at me with arrogant exasperation.

To him, I'm just a brunette monkey, one banana tantrum away from flinging my own faeces in a spousal meltdown. I remind myself, firmly, and for the millionth time that this man, this… medical maverick of a man is the only reason Christian isn't a vegetable. Grace is better at dealing with him than I am, but I'm tired of second hand diagnoses, prognoses and surgical schedules.

"I understand that you are very upset right now, Mrs Grey," he mumbles patronisingly, "But Mr Grey's case is, as I've said many times now, one of the most intricate I have ever come across. Will he walk again? It's not impossible per se, true, but it is highly improbable. Will he ever have bodily function below the neck again? Again, it's not impossible per se, but it _is_ highly improbable. The neurological progress he's made so far is incredible and it's in that progress you should place your focus. We have to walk before we can run, Mrs Grey…"

He colors slightly.

"Uhm, not that Mr Grey will be running… because… you know…"

How can someone this intelligent be this stupid?

He reminds me of Sheldon Cooper.

Brilliant, yes, but undoubtedly an emotional ignoramus.

"Dr Moore," I say tightly, "I understand what you're saying, but all I am asking is that you refrain from saying it in front of my husband. He's… ok, listen, a lot of his self-worth is tied up in his perception of himself and that perception involves the walking, running, weight-lifting CEO, Christian Grey. Not the bedridden, plaster encased Christian Grey, you know what I mean?"

He peers down at me and tilts his head like a bewildered labradoodle.

"No."

Do these people not have to serve a psych rotation?

"You're depressing him," I bark, more loudly than I ever intended to, "Every time you examine him you tell him that he's one surgical stitch away from life in a persistent vegetative state and that his legs, arms and torso are but ornaments from this point onwards… you know what I mean?"

His brow contorts into a frown of confounded confusion.

"No."

Jesus Christ Almighty.

Maybe I should have sent Grace after all.

"Dr Moore… you need to let him know that there's hope."

He tucks his chart under his right arm and shakes his head slightly.

"Mrs Grey… I've been doing this a long time and one thing I've learned is that… false hope… well…"

He sighs.

"It's no hope at all."

"No hope?" I echo faintly. "He has overcome every single odd to get this far, and your response to that is to caution against _hope?_ I'm not expecting him to run a marathon or climb Mt Everest, but… he needs to know that he'll be able to hold a pen, play the piano… _run his company."_

He shoots me a derisive look.

"You're concerned about being kept in the manner to which you are accustomed?"

Anger.

Red, hot boiling anger. It spurts within me like magma. How _dare_ he? How _dare_ he make assertions and assumptions about me, or our marriage? I snuffle down some air and count to ten, reminding myself that Dr Moore can't help Christian if he's dead.

"Kindly refrain from making misguided assumptions, Doctor," I say coldly. "You know nothing of our marriage and you clearly know nothing of Christian. His company, aside from his family and I, is everything to him. It's his entire identity. All I am asking you to do is to refrain from acting like he will never lead GEH again. That's all."

He barely suppresses a roll of his shrewd, intelligent eyes.

"Mrs Grey, barely three weeks has passed since he first regained consciousness, a feat that defies all medical expectation and knowledge no less. You need to manage your expectations. If it is anyone that should reconsider the kind of hope they are giving to Mr Grey, it is you. Now, if you will excuse me, I _do_ have other patients to attend to. I will attend on Mr Grey on my next rounds and keep you appraised of any developments, ok?"

He doesn't wait for my answer.

Turning on his Italian leather heel, he stalks down the sterile corridor.

He doesn't see my snarl.

Christian looks up hopefully as I nudge open his hospital door. In the twenty-one days that have snailed by since we vowed to get through this together, healing the emotional rift between us, his physical progress has plateaued. A layer or two of plaster has been removed, but he remains encased in white, scratchy armor. He has no feeling below his neck and not a finger can he twitch, nor a toe can he wiggle. But his verbal acuity is improving day-by-day. Talking still tires him out, but his speech is notably less slurred and stunted.

He smiles at me with sleepy lips when he sees me looking at him.

But when he doesn't see me, he stares despondently into space.

I see him sinking further and further into a black hole of despair every day. He tries to hide it from me, from his parents, from everyone. But every smile is a little falser and every reassurance is a little emptier. Anxiety dogs me, night and day and I cannot share my fears with anyone. Grace, Carrick… Elliot and Mia… they are buying the façade and that façade is of such comfort that I cannot bear to take it from them.

Which is why I confronted Dr Moore alone.

All Christian needs is something to strive for, a goal to aim for. He's a results-driven guy and I just _know_ if that egotistical medic could spare him even the faintest sprinkling of hope, he'd rally. I see him burn with embarrassment and anger when the nurse comes in to change his urine bag. I see him bridle with hidden indignation when Grace holds a straw to his mouth so that he might drink. I see him wince with ignominy when Carrick solemnly reports back on the comings and goings of GEH, a task he volunteered for and executes with precision. He's suffocating in his own body. He can't _be_ the Christian he's always been, and whilst I'll love any version of Christian I can have, I know that he can't… and more to the point, that he won't.

The instinctive smile at my entrance slips away, as it always does.

These three weeks have been more telling than all our time together. I've learned more about his tells, his micro-expressions and his non-verbal cues than I ever would have imagined possible. We're alone now, which is a consolation. He doesn't have to keep up the same front when it's just us. My hand unfurls over his and I ponder yet again… now? Is now the right time? But the darkness creeps into his eyes, sweeping like a toxic smog and I know in my soul that this time, like all the times before it, is not the right time.

"What were you and Dr Moore whispering about?"

His voice his light, his words almost chirpy… but I sense the undercurrent.

"We were just discussing your treatment plan," I say quietly, choosing my words carefully. "Dr Moore is delighted with your neurological function so far, says you're defying all the odds."

I squeeze his hand.

"Isn't that great?"

He smiles vacantly, staring up at ceiling and withdraws further into himself.

"Yeah… that's great, just great…"

My stupid smile, plastered onto my face, doesn't dare to falter.

I open my mouth, casting around in my mind for something to talk about that doesn't entail bodily function or dysfunction. I just wish I could take even the slimmest portion of the joy I feel every time I look at my conscious, talking Fifty and breath it into him. He cannot see what a miracle he is, how much he has overcome to string words together, to piece his gray matter back together. All he can see is that he can't move anything below the neck. All he can see is that he is bed-ridden and may remain as such for the rest of his life.

He beats me to the punch before I can think of something _happy_ to say.

"You know what I was just thinking?"

I sit up straighter, a flame of hope licking my insides.

 _Maybe he was imagining himself… in a year or so from now… walking tall._

"What's that?"

He licks his lips and turns his neck slowly, so that his gaze falls upon mine. A weird flicker of hope is dancing in his eyes and my heart quickens with joy. Maybe this is it, maybe this is the first bout of optimism Christian is experiencing. My hand tightens on his as he opens his mouth slowly and his words teeter on the tip of his tongue.

"Thank fuck we don't have kids. That fuck any child of mine doesn't have to see me like this."

The color drains from my face as every fibre of happiness is sucked from my soul.

 _Well, I guess I was right… this definitely wasn't the right time._

…..

If you'd like a sneak peek of the next chapter just leave a "sneak peek please" in a review and I will PM you soon!

Today's recommendation is by a new author to the fandom, _Absolutely Cullen_ and her story is _The Sound of You._ I won't give too much away, but I would thoroughly recommend you all give it a read! It's a new take!

Inks x

…


	13. For the Love of a Son

Grace seems to wither away with poorly concealed despair. Christian is adamant. Even as his mother and me stand at his bedside, looking from his stubborn expression to Dr Moore's matching mask of obstinance, he refuses to relent. The urge to tear my hair out grows with every passing nanosecond. For every one step forwards, there's three steps backwards. A shockwave of frustration strikes me and for the first time… the very first time since this ordeal began…

I am angry.

Not at myself, or Andrea, or Leila… but with him. I'm angry with him… with Christian. Scratch that, I'm _furious._ Dr Moore sighs and tucks his clipboard under his arm, looking down on my outwardly sullen husband. He's given up casting hopeful looks over at Grace and me. We're having about as much luck as he is, which is no luck at all.

"Mr Grey, do you realize the consequences of your decision?"

If Christian could have jutted his jaw out in a show of aggression, I know he would.

"Yes, I do," he bites out shortly, "I am not quite braindead yet, Doctor."

"I appreciate that, Mr Grey," Dr Moore placates tiredly, "But I am offering you a chance to possibly regain bodily function that will no longer be possible if you delay even another three to four days. Your muscles are atrophying. Without stimuli, they will continue to do so at a rapid pace until such time as there will be no hope of regeneration. The potential downfalls are really no matter when weighed against the-"

"You think the _amputation_ of my _legs_ is nothing more than a _potential downfall_?"

Dr Moore blinks owlishly. It's clear that he's genuinely confused.

"Well, considering that your legs are currently no more than ornaments encased in less than appealing plaster, yes. Yes, I do."

My eyes droop slowly shut in silent despair. On the one hand, maybe Christian needs straight-talking, no frills and fancies, hold the side-order of bullshit. But on the other, Dr Moore has to be bluntest and most emotionally-constipated secretion of a man that I've ever met in my entire life. Christian's eyes harden to that shade of gray that turns his unusual gaze from transfixing, to terrifying.

"That may be the case," he hisses, "But they're _my_ legs and I'd like to keep a hold of them a while longer, if you don't mind. It's just… I've had them all my life, you know? Grown a bit fond them over the years. A bit fucking sentimental, if you will."

Grace whimpers beside me and not for the first time, I am agitated by her new sense of weakness. All she's done recently is moan and groan, weep and wail. When it's come down to the practicalities of Christian's long-term care, she's been next to useless and as the days go by, I cannot help the pit of anger that flickers inside of me for the Grey matriarch. All the times that I privately defended Grace in my mind about the Elena debacle come back to haunt me. I told myself that even an esteemed paediatrician could miss the tell-tale signs of abuse, under their own roof, stemming from their own child when it was someone like Elena Lincoln pulling the strings.

But in my angriest, darkest hour… I think differently, feel differently.

I think she buried her head in the sand way back then, the same way she's doing now. She spends her days rearranging flowers and photos in her son's room, ignoring the glowering starkness that hangs around him in an aura that sours by the day. She spends her days discussing Christian's business with Carrick, every discussion capped off with…

 _Just remember, he'll be back to work himself in no time. No time at all!_

It's been six weeks since I decided that the time to tell Christian… wasn't the time at all. And those forty-two days have been hell on Earth. The dreaded morning sickness is well and truly upon me and the never-ending sensation of squeamishness educates me to the fact that _morning sickness_ isn't _morning sickness_ at all. It's an all-day sickness, an all-day salivating form of nausea. I have never felt more alone. Even with Christian's hand in mine, his being there in a pointed show of reluctance, I feel so very, terribly alone.

The only one who knows or cares about little blip, is me.

When I first found out about blip, I was terrified. Horrified, even. Then the crash happened, and I knew what real terror, real horror was and realized that what I felt about blip was shock, nothing more, nothing less. And when the smog of that shock lifted… all that was left was a love so strong, so powerful that it carried me through the toughest time of my life. It heaved me over the hurdles that brought me to the present moment.

To the moment of Christian throwing in the towel of hope.

To the moment of Christian deciding he'd rather never walk again then take a chance.

To the moment of Christian acting in a vacuum, as if he didn't have a wife… and a child, to think about.

The surgery Dr Moore is suggesting is beyond risky, and it's beyond experimental. He tried to explain it to me. Basically, he wants to extract stem cells from what little muscle tissue that remains healthy in Christian's arms, and inject them into the wearied, strained and decaying muscles of his legs. This, he posits, may heal and regenerate the muscles alongside the eventual healing of Christian's crushed and smashed bones.

I remember my voice of complete confusion.

 _But what about his spine? Isn't his spinal cord… practically severed?_

Practically, yes.

Totally, no.

Dr Moore told me to think of Christian like a dissembled puzzle that we were trying to put back together again. He wanted to start with the legs first, because they were like the corners of a puzzle, they were the easiest to start with. The spinal cord was a completely different matter, a much more advanced segment of the puzzle. The spinal cord would require the drafting in of the finest orthopaedic surgeons in the country, in the world, even. There were talks of moulds and grafts, of screws and pins.

I remember my blank expression.

 _But… you said he would never walk again?_

 _No, Mrs Grey, I said it was highly improbable, but not impossible. I believe it was you who demanded I see your husband for the improbable man that he is and that is what I am doing, I am seeing… but it's up to him whether he'll take the risk…_

"Could you please leave?"

The angry bark snaps me out of my reverie and with a weary heart I take in Christian's angry scowl and barely manage to swallow an unprovoked attack on Grace as she smooths his bedclothes rather than deal with the person _under_ them. A stinging sickness works its way into my throat and the taste invades my mouth, prompting a gag. I swallow quickly and pass it off as a cough, but I could swear I caught a curious look from Grace out of the corner of my eye.

 _Oh yeah, pay attention to me… never mind the life-altering options of your son!_

"Christian," I murmur, taking his hand tighter in my own. "Please, would you at least consider it?"

His eyes dart to mine and the layer of contempt swims just below the surface.

"You'd have me be an amputee, Ana, really? That's what you want for me?"

A scream of frustration swells in my diaphragm.

 _What good are his legs right now? No good, that's what kind of good!_

"No," I say as softly as I can, "But… Christian, please, think of the bigger picture. Your legs right now are crushed and will stay that way without real and radical help. Dr Moore is offering you the chance… the hope… of walking again. I know it's a long, long road and it's full with uncertainty and odds that aren't exactly in our favor… but can't you at least think about it? I mean, even if this operation doesn't work… you're not going to be in a worse position than you are right now. You have everything to gain and very little to lose."

Anger.

Clear as day it clouds in his irises and pins me with his disgust.

"You consider being _legless…_ very little to lose? Why don't we cut off your legs, Ana? Would you think the same if it were your limbs on the line?"

I catch myself from the heated retort that flies to my lips. I'm tired, he's tired and the room is thick with tension. I need to be understanding, I need to patient and I need to think independently of myself and Blip. But I barely manage it… barely, oh so barely. Biting my lip, I wait for Grace to get her head out of her ass and put her medical know-how to good use. The answering silence quickly tells me that I might as well be waiting for Pope Francis himself to waddle through the door and cure Christian's ails with one wave of his fricking pastoral staff.

 _Useless bitch._

"Christian, you know it's not the same," I whisper desperately. "You've overcome so much as it is, why not push for a little more? Can you honestly tell me that you'll be content in a wheelchair knowing that there was a chance to walk and knowing that you decided to simply not take it?"

I seize his hand ever tighter.

"If it goes wrong, if the complications Dr Moore is warning us about happen… and he has to amputate… I will still be as with you then as I am here now… this isn't about me, or anyone else, this is about you. This is about giving you the best chance to get your old life back, to be the old you. Don't you want that? Don't you want to do everything in your power to bring some normalcy back to your life? Don't you understand what you're giving up by not even _trying?_ "

I see the light die a sudden death in his eyes.

"Don't you mean… what _you're_ giving up if I don't try?" he says coldly, so coldly that the hairs on the back of my neck rise and flutter in the stuffy sterility of his hospital room. "What's wrong, Ana? You're actually realizing for the first time what your life looks like with the burden of a cripple, is that it? You've had a long, hard look at me and decided that you don't like what you see? Is that it? Well, maybe I've had the chance to have a long, hard think too… and you know the conclusion I've come to?"

I loosen the grip on his hand.

I loosen it so hard and so fast it nearly falls from mine.

But not quite.

"I've come to the conclusion that I should never have let you drive that day. I've come to the conclusion that if I had been driving that day, I wouldn't be lying like a vegetable in this godforsaken fucking hospital bed. I've come to the _conclusion_ that the only reason you're sticking around and forcing surgical Hail Marys on me is to make yourself _feel_ better. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not having Dr Frankenstein over here performing shit on me to assuage _your_ guilt about being unable to drive a fucking Audi. So you can go ahead and fucking drop it, okay?!"

His hand falls from mine as I fall from the highest emotional mountain.

Grace stiffens at my side, mid-blanket smoothing.

We haven't told Christian about Andrea yet, we didn't think he was ready. All he knows is that we were in an accident and that I was driving. A small gasp tears from my throat as I stand without conscious instruction of my legs. The underwater sensation that has had mercy on me for the past few weeks is back with a wicked vengeance and swallows me whole. I can't breathe from the pain, I can barely register Grace as she stands shakily and clears her throat.

"Christian, darling, you don't mean that, you-"

"Don't tell me what I do and don't mean," he snaps, much to the gawping Dr Moore's discomfort. "If I had been driving… none of this would be happening. If I had been driving… I wouldn't have _let_ this happen…"

She tries again as I stand without air. If I were totally conscious, I would have a felt a warm, crushing bout of love for the woman. But I'm not and so I feel nothing, nothing but rejection and pain.

"Christian Grey! This is _not_ Ana's fault. She has been doing everything she can to-"

"To what, Grace? To make herself feel better about the fact that it's me lying here with nothing but a life of infirmity to look forward to instead of her? That I put my life in her hands and now I have no life and nothing to live for?"

Her hand wraps around mine.

"Stop it," she says sharply, "You have a _wife_ to live for, not to mention a-"

My voice interrupts her in a cold, cruel staccato.

"A son."

….

A/N: If you'd like a sneak peek, please just leave a "sneak peek" in a review. Peeks for other stories will be out soon! Please bear with Christian, this is a slow-burn road to recovery with all the highs and lows that go with it!

Today's recommendation is _Breaking Down the Walls by JustSunny!_ A seriously excellent story with all the suspense one could ask for!

Till next time, I hope you all had a nice Easter!

Inks x

…..


	14. With or Without You

All eyes are on me.

My hands curl protectively around little Blip as Christian's eyes widen and harden simultaneously. Grace stiffens beside me as Dr Moore clears his throat uncomfortably, clearly wishing he'd never laid eyes or hands on the Grey family. There's no air in this room. I can't breathe. I look down on my husband and read his reaction and his expression like a book. Like the most soul-crushing, painstaking book.

Horror.

He is horrified. I hold Blip a little tighter and shield him from his father's first glance. A warm hand finds mine and squeezes it tight. Grace's eyes are shining with tearful delight. A splinter of relief pierces my misery. At least Blip's grandma is happy to hear about him. My own mother and Ray are nearby. I haven't told them yet, either. We've all been so focussed on Christian, it didn't seem right. I'll stop by their hotel later and tell them. Turning to Grace, I squeeze her hand in answer and nod at the unspoken question in her eyes.

 _Are you sure?_

Yes.

More than I've been about anything or anyone before in my life. I've known for a while, maybe a week after our honeymoon, before the crash. I was trying to think of the right way to tell Christian. Neither of us were ready for kids. Now, one of us is. I always pictured being pregnant with my first kid at around thirty-two. I'd be young, but mature. I'd be ready. This isn't what I had in mind, but as I hold my belly a little tighter, I wouldn't change it for the world. Blip is early, well ahead of schedule… but he is our _son._

Our very own son.

"Christian," I saw slowly and clearly. "I'm pregnant. With a boy. About four months along. Everything is fine. He's healthy and-"

"How could you let this happen?" he hisses in this weird constipated tone of icy disbelief. "How could you be so fucking stupid, Ana? You forget your shot, didn't you? You _forgot_ your fucking _shot_. I organize the best OBGYN in the State to take personal responsibility for your care and you forget to show up for one fucking injection. How hard can it be to do one single thing right, huh? How hard? You're twenty-two years old and you can't drive a car or attend medical appointments. What are you, braindead? Or just plain stupid?"

By the end of his diatribe, he is screaming.

Grace's jaw falls open.

Dr Moore glares down at his patient, clearly appalled.

"Christian, you aren't-"

"A fucking child, Ana? Really? I can't stand, walk or pass my own faeces and your winning answer to that combination is to add another human to the mix who cannot stand, walk or pass their own faeces? I don't want… I'm not ready… how could you do this? You want my own child to see me like this, you want my own child to grow up knowing that his _father_ will never bring him to a game or pick him up from school? You stupid… you fucking _idiot_ …"

The color in his face is rising to a beet red as my soul shudders in fright.

I've never seen him like this before.

He's never spoken to me like this before.

In another world, tears would have sprung to my eyes and I would've shrivelled up in despair at his burning words and hateful eyes. But in that other world, I was alone. I'm not alone anymore and I'm not my main priority. With as much dignity as I can muster, I lean forwards and pick my coat up from one of the chairs in his room and slip it on over my shoulder before replacing my hands over Blip and shielding him from the ugliness. I don't take the time to think on my words. I just say what's in my heart.

"Christian, I am going to do this with or without you. When we were on honeymoon, we had a lot of sex. Babies happen when you have a lot of sex. And it's happened to us. We have a son. In my stomach right now, we have a child. And I love that child, Christian. I love that child more than I ever thought I could love anything or anyone. This child, our son, he is my main priority and whether you like it or not, in five months he will be born. He will be born, and he will be perfect. Our perfect little boy. Is it sooner than we would have liked? Yes. Is it amidst circumstances we would have liked? No. But it's happening, Christian. It's happening. And unless you can get your head out of our ass long enough to take care of yourself so that you can take care of him… it's happening without you."

The beet red color drains from his face, leaving him an ashen pale.

He's not screaming anymore, he's whispering.

"You would choose him… over me?"

His lips are dry, and his eyes are oddly translucent. I feel like I can see in through the windows of his soul. The tortured, torrid nature of his naturally beautiful soul. Tears do in fact threaten. But not from fear or anger, but from sadness. I'm on a cliff top. There are two options in front of me and the salt wind is in my hair. On the right-hand side, stood dangerously close to the edge is my husband. On the left-hand side, stood dangerously close to the edge is my son. They're both going to fall, and I have time to save only one and only a split second to make the decision. All my focus and energy has been on Christian since this ordeal started, Blip has barely entered my mind since we arrived at this hospital. But it's different now that I know Christian is going to survive. Now my mind is full of his little arms and legs and his strong little heartbeat.

He knows my answer before I say it but I say it anyway.

"If you force me to," I whisper, "Then yes, yes I will. I have to. He is my child, Christian. Our chid. I am his mother. A mother should always protect her child first and foremost, above all others. He needs me. He needs me more than anyone else in the world, even more than you. If you won't be the father he deserves and the husband I thought I married, then yes, I will choose him."

Grace's hand finds mine again and she squeezes tighter than tight.

A mother's vindication.

Christian says nothing for the longest moment. Dr Moore stares from him to me in blatant amazement, clearly wondering if he's stumbled onto a rerun of _Days of Our Lives._ I watch the cogs turn in his mind and feel fatigue creep up like a smog around me. I am so tired. All I want to do is to lay down and sleep forever, but I can't. Grace's warm presence beside me salves me of the irritation I have felt with her recently. She's standing beside me when it matters and for that, I'll be forever grateful. But right now, all I want is my own mom. I want my mom and I want Ray. I want them to tell me that I can do this, that I can be a good mother that raises a happy, healthy child.

Because I might need them more then I've ever needed anyone.

Because I might have to raise that happy, healthy child alone.

All alone.

"Leave."

His single word is like an ice pick to the heart but I refuse to show the pain that cascades inside of me. Nodding, I simply release Grace's hand from mine and make to turn on my heel without another word. But his voice pulls me back and I twist my head to take in his paling, wearied face.

"No… not you," Christian whispers, jerking his head to his mom and Dr Moore.

"Them."

They don't hesitate. Dr Moore looks like he's been given the winning lottery numbers as he scrambles from the room. Grace smiles at me reassuringly and gives something akin to a warning glance to her son. He doesn't bother to answer her. In fact, he stares right through her with borderline mutinous eyes until the door closes softly behind her and we are alone. I never thought it'd be awkward, being alone in a room with my own husband but between his outburst and my declaration that Blip would come first, I don't know where to look.

"Ana…"

His voice is low, slow and pained.

"Ana, please. Listen to me. Sit down and listen to me."

I move stiffly and ease myself down in his bedside chair in silence.

"Christian, I am not going to change my mind on this. You don't just change your mind about a child. I understand that you're not thrilled, but that's life. Look around you, this room isn't something we ever planned on. But it's happened and we're dealing with it. Well, I'm dealing with it. You're throwing in the towel and treating our son like a disease that I've contracted by being careless. I can't be around either of those two things, and I mean it. You need to get your priorities in check because the last time I checked, a man's wife and child come before his fears and his ego!"

I didn't mean to say any of that but the words leave me like a burst dam.

I couldn't hold them back even if I wanted to. Which I don't, not really. His gray irises contract with a pain that's not physical and his mouth moves soundlessly for a moment. With a twang of suffering, I realize the love I have for this man is immune to extinguishment. Even if I have to walk away for the well-being of our son, I will always love him. One day later, one year later, one decade later…

Always.

"I'm sorry… Ana, please, I'm so sorry."

The flagellating tone of his voice takes me by surprise. It's a far cry from his earlier outburst.

"What I said… I didn't mean it. You're not stupid, or an idiot. I'm a bastard for saying anything like that. I wasn't thinking. I… fuck. I'm sorry, Anastasia. Please believe me."

I look down at him and believe him without hesitation.

"That doesn't matter, Christian," I whisper thickly. "Words don't matter, actions matter. I understand that you were shocked and that you're afraid and in pain. I understand all of that, but what you have to understand is much bigger… what you have to understand is that nothing or nobody will change my mind about this baby, our son. He is going to be born and I am going to do whatever it takes to ensure he has the best life possible. I want to do that with you by my side but if that's not possible… I'll go it alone."

He doesn't say anything for the longest, interminable moment.

Before…

"Ana, no child deserves to have me as a father. No child deserves to be blighted like that…"

He can't look at me, staring resolutely up at the ceiling.

My heart aches before it breaks.

"Christian," I croak, reaching out to grasp his hand. "Christian, that just isn't true. You have never seen yourself as you are. Never. But you are a wonderful husband and you will be a wonderful father. Do you think I'm not terrified? I am _terrified._ Kids, they don't come with instruction manuals and they don't come with any guarantees. There's a lot that can do wrong and there are a million mistakes that we're both going to make. But one thing I know for sure is that… we'll love him, Christian. We'll love him more than anything in the world and at the end of the day, that's all any child needs. The rest is just trial and error. Blip will be loved and he'll know it…"

His eyes slowly rove to mine and to my seismic shock, I see they're damp.

"Blip?" he whispers curiously.

Smiling, I stand with extreme caution and lean down so that his encased hand can reach up just an inch with the help of mine to caress my stomach.

"Meet Blip," I whisper, "Our little Blip on the radar… our baby."

He swallows deeply and thickly.

"Blip…"

His lips caress the name and my heart lifts in the faintest of hopes.

"Uh huh."

I place his hand gently back down upon the stiff sheets and hold it in mine. Neither of us speak for a moment. Silence surrounds us and it's a comfort, a reprieve from the chaos of the day. I watch the monitors rise and fall, soothed by their almost hypnotic rhythm. The softness of his voice almost startles me amidst the melodious beeping.

"Ana?"

My eyes trail down to his suddenly young and vulnerable looking face.

"Yeah?"

He licks his lips and takes a deep breath.

"You really think I can do this? Be a father?"

He seems sheepish, almost embarrassed. I grip his hand even tighter and tell him the gods honest truth.

"Without a doubt."

He looks at me with such a raw trust that tears finally pool in my eyes.

"Ana?"

God, the sound of his voice will forever be my undoing.

"Yeah?"

A slow and small smile spreads across his face as he blinks up at me.

"Do you think that Teddy is a nice name for a boy?"

…

A/N: Teasers for this and Oriflamme and FSOJ will be out soon. If you'd like a teaser for this one, just leave a message in a review and I'll PM you shortly!

Today's recommendation is _His Last Acquisition_ by _Missmusicteach._ You will NOT be disappointed!

Inks x


	15. Future Tense

"I need to know."

His voice his flat, a monotone. There is no twinkle in his eye, no quirk at the corner of his lips. My eyes flicker to a nervous looking Carrick and at his subtle nod I take a deep breath. This conversation has been a long time coming. My husband isn't stupid, nor is he malleable. It's amazing we got this far with vague non-answers and none-too-subtle redirects. I must be grateful for the entire week of post-blip reveal I've shared with him, without divulging the painful truth. I'm glad my mom and Ray have taken Grace to lunch. Somehow, the pragmatic calmness that Carrick always exudes is the only thing that could possibly help right now.

"Well, you know you were in a car crash?"

He glares impatiently, and a sliver of anticipation runs unexpectedly up and down my spine.

I've _missed_ that eye-spank.

"Yes, Anastasia," he mutters dryly, "Cunningly enough, I _have_ deduced that I was in a car crash."

I try to scowl and fail.

"Well, what you haven't deduced… what you _couldn't_ have deduced is how that came about." My voice is thick and slow, my temples jumping erratically against the thin slice of skin keeping them in place. I look helplessly at Carrick, but his steady gaze tells me what I already know. That I have to be the one to tell him, no one else. I reach out and cup his hand in mine, sensing his increasing anxiety and squeezing his soft palm tight as tight can be.

"Christian… how much do you remember about Andrea?"

His grey orbs swirl with bewilderment.

"Andrea?" he repeats hazily. "You know what I know about Andrea. She's… well, she's my assistant. The best I've ever had. I'm amazed she hasn't been in, now that you mention her. She's probably running on empty keeping GEH afloat."

His eyes narrow.

"You know, since I have no idea what's going on in my own company. Since you people won't _let_ me near a phone to assess how handsomely the imbeciles I employ are destroying everything I have built brick by brick. Andrea's literally my only comfort there right now. She'll keep the ship upright until I…"

His voice trails off and he swallows awkwardly.

"Until I get myself together."

Rage, hot and heady fills me and not for the first time, I wish Andrea every pain known to man. Every disease known to mankind, every misery known to the psyche. She's the reason he's laying in a hospital bed, immobile, beyond lucky to be alive. How could he know the cruel irony of his words? Licking my dry lips, I move closer to his bedside under the watchful gaze of his father and choose my words carefully. He doesn't remember. Dr Moore didn't think he would, but I had hoped… prayed. He doesn't remember committing Andrea after finding out about her obsession with him, her hatred of me.

Christ.

"What do you know of her feelings towards you?"

His blank expression is so innocent, so nonplussed, that I ache with the want of weeping.

"Her feelings towards me? I'm her _boss_ , Ana. I imagine her feelings are the same as any other of my employees."

His lips quirk upwards somewhat.

"A healthy mix between admiration and detestation."

His brow furrows.

"Why? Why are you asking me about Andrea? Now?"

Jesus, he's so unaware of himself. Even now, even still. The very idea that Andrea or anyone could harbour any remotely positive feeling towards him is alien, unheard of. Despite the fact that somewhere in his grey matter, deep in his brain, he _knows_ exactly who and what she is. Sighing, I look down on his open, trusting face and know in my heart that this is not the time for gentle inroads. This is the time for brute and blunt honesty.

"Christian, Andrea was… is in love with you. She has been for a very long time. I didn't crash the car that night, the night that led us here. We were run off the road, by her. By Andrea. She's been behind it all. Jack Hyde, Charlie Tango's crash, all of it. You found out about it a long time ago and had her committed without telling me any of it. You don't remember, you can't remember, but you did. You thought you were doing the right thing and maybe you were, but she got out, she escaped, and she's been working with Leila Williams ever since. Using her as a pawn in her sick obsession. She was here, in the hospital. She had a gun…"

His jaw slackens.

His eyes widen.

His sudden coldness is terrifying.

"Is this some sort of joke?" he snarls in a strangled tone of contempt. "Do you think this is funny? What the _hell_ is the matter with you, Ana? Why would you even say any of that shit? Andrea? My Andrea? You expect me to believe she tried to have us both killed because she _loves_ me? And that I knew about it beforehand and just conveniently can't _remember,_ now?"

He stares up at me in castigation before softening his gaze.

"Ana, baby, I don't blame you for the crash. I know I said some awful, stupid things. I know I hurt you… but you don't have to make up some wild story about Andrea being some sort of crazed bunny boiler to cover it up. Accidents happen. It's okay, it'll be okay."

The urge to punch him in the face strikes me with such ferocity that I am paralyzed.

Sucking cold air through my teeth like a drowning man, I struggle to keep my shit together.

"It isn't a story, Christian. It's what happened. You wanted to know the truth and here it is. Andrea was in love with you. She was obsessed with you and had been for a very long time. That was contained when you were just…"

I catch myself just in time.

Carrick doesn't need to know of his son's previous sexual arrangements.

"When you were just, you," I continue lamely. "But when I came onto the scene, it was too much. She snapped, I guess. She snapped, and this is the result. She ran us off the road that night because in a fit of jealousy, she couldn't bear to see us together. She's been arrested and denied bail. She's been charged with two counts of attempted murder and another list as long as your arm."

His mouth slicks open as the reality of my seriousness hits home.

The silence cracks like wildfire.

"You're… you're not joking?"

Who the fuck would joke about something like this?

I shake my head and tighten my grip on his limp hand.

"No, Christian, I wish I was. I really do, but I'm not."

His face contorts in a spasm and I can't be sure, but instinctively I feel he's experiencing some sort of flashback. Some insight into his own, broken mind. His mouth opens and closes several times, but no words come out. I glance anxiously at Carrick, gesturing towards the nurse bell. He shakes his head imperceptibly, no. Staring back down at my husband, I feel a real terror as he silently gags for air. His eyes bulge with venomous knowledge, his body his own prison. It's just when I'm about to throw Carrick's caution out the window that our wisdom is rewarded. His voice is our reward and I expect it to scream and to roar, to demand more and more answers, more and more information. I expect Christian to rage and to curse, to condemn and to war.

But he doesn't.

Instead, his suddenly tired, jaded eyes swivel up to mine and the desperation is plain as plain can be.

He looks like a drowning man.

"Ana?"

His voice is raspy, hoarse. I see the dots connecting in his brain and see the picture they're forming. His fault. He thinks it's all his fault. Everything that's happened to me, everything that's happened to him. To us. If he'd only caught on to Andrea earlier, ensured she could never wreak havoc again, then none of this would ever have happened. My lips rip apart fiercely, ready to rebuke and reassure in equal measure. Ready to do whatever it takes for him to understand that this wasn't his fault, that this was no one's fault.

But hers.

" _Ana?"_

He gets there before me and the crushing plea stops me before I can even begin.

"Christian?"

His eyes are wild.

"I need to feel… please, I need to feel. Can you lean over, can you put my hand…"

I stare at him nonplussed for the longest moment before I catch on. Numb and in shock at this reaction, I automatically lift his hand and press its soft warmth against my stomach, against Blip.

Against our son.

The effect is instantaneous and shocking.

His entire face relaxes in one fell swoop. Gawping down at him, his suddenly sleepy smile is nearly lost on me as he peers up through thick, dark lashes.

"As long as I have this," he whispers, "I don't care. I don't give a shit. As long as I have this, you and Blip, I don't care about the past… all I care about is the…"

Tears of scalding relief fill my eyes as he savours the sensation of our unborn son and murmurs one word to himself before the combination of shock, confusion and never0ending medication pulls him to a deep, deep sleep.

"Future."

…..


	16. Apples, Mr Grey

The warm smile on the OBGYN's face is like Christmas morning on steroids.

I can't remember her name, this bringer of good news. She's not who we were supposed to see, our own doctor was called away on an emergency. I suppose it's not important. Her lips move very fast as she chirpily points to the vital and perfectly functioning organs of our baby boy. From the terrifyingly cutting edge image, the best that money can buy, naturally, there are ten little toes and ten little fingers. There are two arms and two legs, all kicking and waving happily. If happiness were a solid object, I'm pretty sure I'd be choking on it right about now. It's been a whole month since Christian first laid his hand against my stomach and our son and if a day can make all the difference, it doesn't hold a candle to what thirty can do.

Our baby, our Blip, he's been cooking for five months now and I'm finally showing.

For a while there, I thought I never would.

But my Bump and my Blip are making their mark on the world and I'm getting bigger by the day. I watch the energetic pumping of tiny little fists and look across at the father-to-be. If it wasn't so painfully adorable, I'd laugh. Christian's face is a mixture of burning love and burning terror. His eyes are glued to the screen like he's never seen anything like it, which I suppose, he hasn't. The corners of his mouth curl up into the proudest smile I think I've ever seen him wear as Mr Blip somersaults inside me and the sensation is as amazing as ever.

"Ana! Ana, did you see that? Did you see what he did? The flip?"

His eyes are dancing as he drinks in the screen, mouth wordlessly opening and closing.

I laugh and shake my head. This is the playful Christian that I fell so hard for. He's coming back to me, slowly, oh so very slowly but surely nonetheless. I reach over from my own temporary bed and squeeze his hand tight.

"I saw," I chuckle, "and believe it or not, Mr Grey, I _felt_ it, too. These acrobatics are not exactly bladder friendly, to say the least."

The OBGYN smiles softly at this and I realize how much I like her. She's so quiet, so willing to fade into the background so that we can have this moment. Our first sighting of Blip, together. I look to her anxiously for final confirmation as she starts wiping the cold jelly from my belly and she readily answers my unspoken plea.

"The baby is exactly where want him to be right now. His growth is spot on target and there are no obvious issues on the scan to be worried about. We will of course continue to monitor you as your pregnancy progresses, but for now and on the whole, you have a very healthy little baby in that belly of yours, Mrs Grey."

Jesus. Will I ever get tired of being called Mrs Grey?

I doubt it. I open my mouth to ask a few follow on questions, but I get cut off at the pass,

"What monitoring regimen are you prescribing? This is Ana's first pregnancy, how often should she be scanned? Are there any risks to her as the baby grows? Talk to my mother, will you? Dr Grace Trevelyan-Grey. Is there anything else we should be doing to make sure the baby continues to grow? Any supplements or whatever? And-"

The clearly seasoned doctor smiles knowingly at me.

"Daddy likes to be in control, huh?"

Christian scowls as I force down a burning burst of laughter.

If only she knew.

"Knowledge is power, I guess," I reply laughingly, "but maybe it would be good if you could talk to Grace-"

"Don't see why we couldn't have had her as our pediatrician in the first place," Christian interjects sulkily and I roll my eyes, somewhat relishing the fact that my eyes are free to roll wheresoever they may choose right now.

"Christian. We've been through this. I am not having your mother putting her hands where a mother-in-law's hands have no business being put. I have to sit down with her on Thanksgiving, Christmas and all the things in between and I'd rather not do that knowing she has intricate knowledge of my urinal tract."

My voice is firm, but soft.

I'm not budging on this.

"I'll leave you two to talk," says Dr No Name, "You're free to jump down from the trolley whenever you want, Mrs Grey. Your stomach should be dry now too, if you want to pull your shirt down. I'll see you two again in a months time but you have my number should you need me or have any questions whatsoever, don't be afraid to call. It's what I'm here for, okay?"

I smile brightly, reassured, and even Christian manages a polite thank you.

As the door closes, I hop down from the gurney and place myself very carefully on the edge of his bed, reaching for his hand and cupping it mine. He raises a brow and I instantly move his lifeless hand and place it against my stomach, willing Blimp to give daddy a kick. A few seconds trail by and our son duly obliges, sending Christian's lips spreading wide with happiness. We stay this way for a few moments, wrapped up in our bubble, just the three of us. These moments are the happiest in my life and I relish them.

"Doc says there's been no improvement in my spinal condition."

And the bubble bursts.

He looks up at me through dark eyelashes and I correctly identify the glassy look in his eyes with a punch to my gut. Shame. He's ashamed and it's not the first time and it wont be the last time and every time I see that deadened look in his eyes it makes me want to weep. He blames himself, now, for all of it. For not seeing Andrea for what she was and for not being physically any further along then we got here.

Nothing I say will truly cure him of such irrational, poisonous thoughts.

"Dr Moore said this would be the case," I murmur gently. "Yes, there are no guarantees, but if you keep working with your physical therapist like you have been... who knows what could happen and in the meantime, there's no rush. You're alive and you're safe and that's all that matters, isn't it?"

He bites his lip and I ache for his pain.

"I'll never be able to hold my own child, Ana. I'll never be able to bring him to school or to the park. I'll never be anything more than a burden. A burden to an innocent little baby, Ana. I can't..." he trails off in frustration and I wish, not for the first time, that I could take his place and take this pain from him. His sad proclamation is not new. Christian has been leapfrogging from uncontrollable euphoria to unfathomable depression nearly on the hour, every hour, for the past four weeks. During periods of euphoria, he believes that he can overcome hie challenges and maybe even, some day, regain some level of independence. During periods of depression, he wonders would Blip be better off if he never met him, was never introduced to the father he was destined to be ashamed of.

At first, the A to Z surge of emotion terrified me, but I'm used to it now and I know that in another while, he'll want to talk about baby names and family holidays. I look down at him, his body still so broken and again marvel that he's here with me at all. He's still covered in lots and lots of plaster, but maybe not as much as when we came here. Dr Moore told me that the bones in his arms and legs are showing some slight signs of tentative repair. Nothing to throw a parade about he said, in his usual delightful manner, but still... signs of tentative repair nonetheless. Christian had absorbed this news in both is euphoric and depression riddles states and reacted accordingly.

"We'll be okay. No matter what, we'll be okay. That has to be enough."

He looks at me with cloudy grey orbs, eked in a smog of hopelessness.

"You'll leave me."

This. This is the one statement in his self-destructive arsenal that I find very difficult to remain calm with. Whenever he says it, I want to vigorously shake the stupid out of him. But of course, I can't and so, as usual, I take a deep steadying breath and clutch his hand slightly more tightly than medically advisable.

"I will never leave you, Christian Grey. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."

He gazes up at me, a tortured soul imprisoned in a broken shell.

"But-"

"In sickness and in health," I remind him quietly. "That was my vow to you. To stand by your side in sickness and in health. We've had the health and now we have the sickness and one day... I truly believe, we'll have the health again. So, quit your whining and get some sleep. Mamma needs a nap and you don't want to mess with her. She's a nightmare when she's sleep deprived."

A small smile tears at his lips and he swallows deeply.

"I love you so much, Ana. You know that, don't you? You're... why I'm still here. You and Blip."

Leaning down and kissing him softly on the head, I whisper in his ear.

"I know. I'll always know. Now, get some sleep. I'll be back soon and you better be resting."

He rolls his eyes, a tear in the balloon of his misery visibly appearing.

"Ma'am, yes Ma'am."

I grin a wolffish grin.

"Bet you thought you'd never see the day when you're the bottom, huh?"

He laughs loudly, a short burst of musical mirth that makes my heart flutter.

"If I could feel my palms, I'm pretty sure they'd be twitching, Mrs Grey."

Jesus. Even at five months gestation, if he were in any condition, I would jump his bones. I may be sleep deprived, but everyone tells you to expect that. No one tells you to expect that after your husband being in a major incident, you should expect to be sex deprived, too. I can't help but let my eyes trail down the blanket to his waist and to the impossible-to-reach treasure that lays beneath. He doesn't miss it and his voice is mask of wry amusement. We haven't touched on this subject since well before the crash.

"You're having impure thoughts, Anastasia. My palms really _should_ be twitching,"

I bite my lip and glance down at him, suddenly yearning for his touch.

"I'm perfectly entitled to revisit memories of kinky fuckery with my own husband, Mr Grey."

His eyes widen, pupils dilating.

"Any memory in particular?"

Grinning, I stoop down to his ear level and let my hot breath tickle his ear. I don't need to be able to see his eyes to know they're bulging in his head as I whisper softly and lengthily to him. By the time I straighten up, I feel a certain lightness about me. A certain hope that I haven't let myself feel prior to this moment. It feels so natural, this teasing. This playfulness. It feels like we are what we are, a young married couple hopelessly in love with each other. I realize how incredible it really is... that his mind, Christian's wonderful mind is as it was... and his heart. Looking down at him I have to giggle at his distress and his rapidly moving lips.

"I'd like to think my dick was harder than my first year in business right now, but I can't tell."

His voice is plaintive but his eyes are dancing. Our laughter fills the room, Reaching down, I kiss him gently on the forehead and warn him to get some sleep before I get back. Carrick, Grace, my mom and Ray have all since had to go back to Seattle and beyond to tend to their various responsibilities. Which means my phone is constantly blowing up with requests for updates. I feel it vibrate in my pocket and know its Grace, even though she'll be back here in a few days to order the doctors into shape.

"I'll see you later, and I'm serious about the sleep. I love you."

He rolls his eyes but closes them obediently as I cross the room, grinning at my farewell.

"Laters, baby."

God, today is a good day. There is a skip in my step as I close the door softly behind me and meander down the pristine hospital corridor. This place feels like home now. I know most of the staff on a first name basis and they couldn't be sweeter. I frown as my phone does caterwauls in my pocket, eating into my bliss. I stop at my favorite vending machine and grab myself a soda and some chips, before nudging outside into the misty New York air, plopping myself down on my now favorite bench and roll my eyes at the insane amount of missed calls and answer the current one without glancing at the screen.

"Grace, I promised you I wouldn't let him terrorize the doctor. Everything's great, he's-"

"Hi, Anastasia."

My universe comes crashing down. A scream curdles in my throat and dies in the damp air. No... no, no, no... It cant be.

"Don't hang up," Andrea warns softly, "I don't have much time and don't bother ringing the cops, this phone will be long gone by then and you won't be able to prove a thing."

Fury bursts inside me like an unvented flame of hell and suddenly, I am screaming.

"You crazy bitch! You insane, delusional little-"

"Temper, temper, Anastasia," she crows. "Control yourself. You need to listen to what I have to say."

"The hell I do, you scheming bitch. I'll be calling the police the minute-"

'"Did you like my friend, Anastasia? She's a peach really, don't you think?"

I die as I stand slowly up, feeling Blip kick in anxiety.

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away," she croons maniacally. "Have you been keeping your sweet husband up to date with his five-a-day? Have you made sure to keep him safe from all harm, just like you promised on your special, special day?"

The penny drops.

The doctor,

Doctor No Name.

Her laughter is still ringing in my ears as my cell slips away and I begin the hardest run of my life.


End file.
